The Chaser I Seek
by SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash
Summary: A story of food fights blown out of proportion, blood loyalties, Heads of Schools, Quidditch games, and odds that seem to be insurmountable.
1. The Battle of Great Hall

Anne had been hoping for a memorable first day as Head Girl, but now she was wondering if she should have been a tad more specific.

Things had started out fine. Perfect, even, which is probably why the universe decided to deal Anne the disastrous scenario that followed. On the train, she had arrived early enough to meet all of the prefects, and so she had begun to divide the job of monitoring the various cars among everyone. By the time everybody was there, there was a set plan on how they were going to approach it, and it was being carried out perfectly. Phillip Carlyle, the Head Boy, had arrived about ten minutes into the planning. This had been slightly concerning for Anne, who had only communicated with her partner in stiff, unsure letters of congratulations over the summer. Neither seemed able to find the right words all summer. She supposed it was natural, seeing as they had never interacted before. The two of them had classes together, yes, being two of the brightest students in the school. But with advanced classes focused heavily on independent study and neither knew the other well enough to pair up for the few projects they were assigned.

That was the least of her worries, though she tried not to think about it. The Carlyle family had a reputation, and it was not one that painted a hopeful picture of Phillip's respect for a Muggle-born. The past few years had seen a palpable increase in the tension between Muggle-borns and Pureblooded wizards as You-Know-Who grew more and more powerful. Not all Purebloods held the supremacist attitude towards Muggles, of course. But the Carlyles were one of the most notorious families for this attitude and had been for generations, and Phillip Carlyle was the only heir to this legacy of hatred in a time when such superiority was thriving. The thought of what might happen while they were forced to work side-by-side had caused her more sleepless nights than she cared to admit.

However, Phillip's arrival on the train had brought no ominous thunder or sudden chill, so that had been a plus.

Really, Phillip was nothing but supportive of the orders Anne had given. He assumed the role of enforcing her plans rather than trying to make his own, which Anne discovered when she heard him instructing some of the new Fifth Year Prefects.

"She's the one running the show right now," he had informed them, and there was no malice or sarcasm in his voice as he said it. "That's good for you, because she's going to give you a little part of the plan to work with. If you do your job well, then everyone else will be able to do theirs, and we'll be able to get this train to the station without burning it down."

The two Fifth Year girls he had been speaking to had burst into giggles at that, but Anne had found herself feeling just the slightest bit flattered. She had considered going over to greet him, maybe thank him in a professional manner, but it was at that moment that a Third Year boy burst into the compartment, saying, "Umm... So, we were just sitting there, right, and then the seat started smoking, and we don't know how it happened, but there's a small hole burned in-"

"How small is 'small?'"

"I dunno, I mean, most of the seat is gone, but-"

Neither had spoken to the other after that, for as the Prefects began to do their jobs, various situations arose that demanded each of their separate attentions. This was a development that Anne did not mind, and she was happy to keep busy on the ride to the castle. By the time that the Hogwarts Express had pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Anne had successfully handled a game of Exploding Snap gone wrong, a misfired charm that caused the snack trolley to overturn, and a mess made of a pair of robes during a game of Gobstones. As she watched the students leave the Express, Anne was aware of the fact that her face was flushed and her curls were escaping her buns in wisps. But she also felt proud, like she was beginning to live up to the shiny badge pinned to the front of her worn Ravenclaw robes that were a few inches too short.

It did irk her slightly that Phillip Carlyle looked as unruffled as ever from where he stood across from her, making sure that all of the students made their way out.

After that, things were a blur. Anne and the Carlyle boy were tasked with making sure that students knew where to assume their seats since Professor Lutz was unable to do so while she was tending to the First Years. After the majority of the students were seated, Anne made her way to the Head Table to ask any of the professors what they should be doing next.

"Excuse me," she called to the nearest teacher, the blonde Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Professor Barnum glanced over at Anne with a kind eyebrow raised. "Is there anything else that we can do, Professor?" Anne queried, hopeful. She needed something to busy herself with, or else she was fairly sure her energy would fall flat.

Professor Barnum hummed softly, appearing to think. "Erm... I don't think so, no," she replied, smiling apologetically as she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "But I am sure that Phineas said something about the Sorting starting soon. You two have done more than enough for now, I think, so you can go enjoy the festivities with the rest of us."

Anne nodded, offering the professor a polite smile that hid her disappointment. "Thank you, Ma'am," she murmured, inclining her head respectfully. She was fairly sure that she felt Professor Barnum's motherly gaze upon her back as she weaved between students on the way back to the Ravenclaw side of the Great Hall.

As Anne left the table, she saw that Carlyle had already taken this advice. He was seated in the middle of a group of affluent Slytherin students, and he was laughing at something the brunette girl across from him had said. It did not set in until that moment that Anne did not have anyone to sit with now that W.D. had graduated.

Her brother was working in the Three Broomsticks in order to support them, and Anne knew about the second job that he was hiding. She had noticed the owls coming at odd hours of the night to their tiny flat in Hogsmeade, and she had even managed to sneak one out of the trash, from which she deduced that he was doing some translation of Runes for scholars in Albania. Anne's heart ached that her brother, a brilliant Runes translator who could have found a prestigious job anywhere in the world, was slaving away at a pub for her sake every day. When she graduated, Anne was determined to pick up and leave to start a new life with W.D. They would go somewhere, anywhere, and Anne would get a job researching advanced potions until she was accepted by some major Quidditch team. But until then, Anne no longer had anyone to sit with.

She took a spot at the very end of the Ravenclaw table where no one else sat, fiddling with the napkin on the table absently. She could feel eyes on her, now that she was Head Girl... And she knew those eyes came along with whispers. They did not linger too long, as people had better things to talk about, but she still looked down at the hem of her threadbare sleeve to avoid seeing the brief glances. Anne had never been particularly popular. People knew she was brilliant, they knew that she was one of the best Chasers that Hogwarts had seen for decades, maybe even a century. But for as many acquaintances as Anne had, her dedication to her schoolwork and Quidditch performance did not leave much room for any real friends.

A few moments later, an ample distraction came to turn any unwanted attention away from Anne. Headmaster Barnum rose, and with a wave of his wand, he magicked away the tables. The Headmaster's skinny, slightly mousy appearance was deceiving, for this man was a master of the classes of illusion and enchantment. He was renowned for it in many circles, and Anne was fascinated by the slight flair for the dramatic the man had. She had always been attentive to his words, respecting the air of mystery that clung to him like cobwebs.

The Sorting commenced thereafter. It was a short one, with a particularly small incoming Year. However, there was a noticeable disturbance throughout the ceremony. Anne noticed almost immediately that whenever a surname that was well-known and respected in the magical community was announced, it was greeted with full applause. There were several surnames, however, that were known to be traditionally common in Muggle communities. The cheering following these names was weakened as if at least a third of the students had dropped out. Anne's eyes narrowed, and as soon as any student with a name such as her own was announced, she could be observed to be cheering twice as loud as normal. Several of the teachers picked up on the incident as well, and Anne was fairly sure she caught a glimpse of Professor Barnum and her husband murmuring sonorous charms so that the cheering of the teachers was magnified.

By the time that Zabel, Francine had been sorted into Hufflepuff, Headmaster Barnum had summoned the tables again out of thin air. Gasps filled the room from the First year students who had not been there to see it the first time, and Anne felt a little smile play with her lips. The Headmaster gave a quick speech, and then with a flourish of his wand, the platters before the students all became filled with enough food to feed a small army. Chatter rose to mingle with the cozy sounds of clattering forks and knives, and Anne felt herself visibly relax. Maybe she wasn't exactly a part of it, but this was the part of Hogwarts that she loved. Moments like these, where so many students just existed together, made it feel like home.

Of course, the day chose that moment to turn for the worse.

Anne had only just begun to pour a goblet of pumpkin juice when she first noticed the disturbance, coming from one end of the Slytherin table. Three boys, Fourth Year students, Anne guessed, were using their wands to send little chunks of candied carrots flying to hit a pair of Muggle-born twins across the aisle. Anne set down her goblet, preparing to rise to call the students out. Before she had managed to extricate herself from the table, however, one of the twins had turned and fixed the Fourth Years with a smirk. Anne hastened her efforts to reach the students, but it was much too late. An entire bowl of steak and kidney pudding flew across the aisle to splatter the three students and anyone in the immediate vicinity. For a moment, all conversation fell silent, and there was a moment of hollow space.

And then, the shouting began.

Wands flew out, and Anne fumbled to keep her own in her hand as she desperately scanned the room, trying to see where she was most needed. Anne's ears were overloaded with a tangle of layering spells, most of which sent various trays and plates of food zooming through the air. At first, Anne struggled to appeal to the casters of the spells, but there were far too many. She cursed under her breath as she began to nonverbally cast as many shield charms as she physically could. Invisible barriers sprung up between the attackers and their intended victims, and they effectively stopped the food from flying any further. Unfortunately, this mostly resulted in whatever was being thrown being propelled back towards the attacker, spreading still more food everywhere.

A plate of treacle tart whizzed past Anne's head, and she narrowly dodged it only to be met with a full tureen of chowder. The soup drenched her and a pair of First Years from head to toe, and a shocked gasp left the lips of the children behind her. Anne winced and quickly darted back, gripping them by the hands and pulling them under the table. "Stay here until it's over," she instructed the shell-shocked girls before sliding out from underneath again, leaving them gaping at her retreating form.

Anne fought to move forward, doing as much damage control as she possibly could. Dodging food became completely impossible at this point. What might have been an entire ham narrowly missed Anne's head, shoving her hair out of her bun and getting the soaked curls everywhere. Several pastries were hurled at Anne and smashed into her shoulder, her arm, and her chest, smearing all down the front of her robes. A bowl of lukewarm porridge dumped over her head, and the Head Girl fought to wipe it out of her eyes as she forged forward. All she could do, at the moment, was vanish whatever flying food she could hit. Luckily, Anne had fairly decent aim, and she managed to completely remove several large platters of turkey, ham, and chicken from the air before they could actually hurt someone. Through all of the fighting, she could barely tell who was who, until she stumbled into a form slightly taller than her. Anne whirled around with her wand out, ready to stun the perpetrator if need be.

Instead, she found herself coming face-to-face with a thoroughly flustered Phillip Carlyle.

He looked absolutely ridiculous, with what must have been half of a pudding plastered to his hair and the side of his face. What Anne guessed was chocolate syrup dripped down the side of his face, and what had been his pristine, brand-new robes were covered with mashed potatoes and pumpkin juice. There was a determination in his eyes that was rather comical, seeing as his normally perfect hair was in a cowlick that looked like something from a cartoon. However, as he raised her wand at her, she did not find it hard to believe that he might stun her.

"Carlyle!" she called, over all the noise. "Stop, it's Anne Wheeler!" He froze for a moment, blinking, and Anne remembered that she probably looked equally ridiculous. But then, relief spread over his food-covered features.

"Thank Merlin," he exclaimed, gripping her by the arm and yanking her to the side to avoid a flying sponge cake. "Are you the one who's been vanishing things?"

"Yes," she called, tugging her arm free from his grip immediately. She did not have time to be flustered by the sudden, unwanted contact. "This needs to stop, now, before it gets out of hand!"

"I think it's a bit late for that, as I think I just saw Headmaster Barnum quite literally pie Professor Barnum in the face."

"Are you certain-"

"I would testify to it before Wizengamot."

Anne gritted her teeth and glared at nothing in particular. "Maybe if we can get to Professor Lutz, then-"

Behind them, there was a massive boom, and Anne cried out. Carylye was touching her again, pulling her to the ground with him. She landed sprawled rather uncomfortably on his solid chest, and quickly Anne moved to haul herself off of him. As if that was not enough, a bowl of tuna salad shot by them, effectively covering the both of them in creamy goop.

"Sorry, sorry," Carlyle panted, looking up at her with blue eyes that were as wide as the saucer that broke against the wall behind them.

"What was-"

Just then, a rancid smell filled the hall, and Anne clapped a hand over her mouth and nose. Carlyle did the same, not before Anne caught a glimpse of a gag.

"Dugbob," Carlyle's muffled voice reached her ears as the disgusted coughing of many students filled the hall. Anne felt her level of frustration skyrocket.

"Dungbombs?" she spat. "For the love of all things holy, who the-"

Another boom, and this time Anne was ready. She ducked her head under the nearest table, but Carlyle was not quick enough. Mud flew through the air, hitting him square in the face. Immediately, the Head Boy turned and began to cough, attempting to get out whatever he could from his mouth. Anne stood, trying to locate where the Dungbombs were being set off. The smell was crippling, but she kept a hand clapped over her mouth as she struggled to make her way forward, leaving Carlyle behind. Another detonated, and Anne felt the mud splatter her, too. But she managed to keep it out of her eyes, and that was all that she needed. She pushed her way forward, and through the cloud of brown smoke, she spotted the Fifth Year who was detonating them crouching over another one.

"Evanesco!" Anne shouted, taking aim at the bomb. The boom still set off, but only a little bit more filth flew through the air like projectiles. The rest vanished, along with the bomb, and Anne aimed a silent 'Petrificus totalus!' at the single figure she could see in the center of all of the smoke. She heard a crack that meant that the charm had met the intended target, and then, in the haze of the smoke and the break in the fight, Carlyle climbed onto the Slytherin table, almost slipping in the spill of soup on top of it. Anne pointed her wand at him, murmuring a breathless "Sonorous."

And then, above everything, Carlyle's voice boomed, "The next student to use food as a projectile will personally volunteer to work in the kitchens for two weeks, after they clean all of this up!"

The hall was silent, and Anne let out a soft groan as she leaned against the table at his feet. No noise could be heard except for the labored breath of the students and the dripping of food off of robes. Carlyle let out a massive breath of relief as Anne rubbed her temples and stared at the growing pile of porridge and tuna fish chunks at her feet.

Anne was fairly certain she would not be forgetting her first day as Head Girl anytime soon.


	2. The Heads of School's Bathroom

Cleanup after the fight took far less time than Phillip expected, to his immense relief.

After what felt like a battle to contain the damage spread by flying food, Phillip's brain felt as mushy as the porridge that was currently dripping down the left side of Anne Wheeler's face. The two stayed longer than any of the other students, casting whatever incantations they could to clear up the Great Hall. Most of the teachers stayed as well, although the Professors Barnum were seen leaving the room in an intense argument that could be inferred to be over the pie incident. No one stopped them, and Phillip privately thought it was because the DADA instructor looked absolutely murderous as she talked to her husband and if anyone intervened there was no guarantee that she would not hex them into oblivion.

The remaining wizards and witches started by vanishing the massive amount of food. The problem with a food fight in the Great Hall was that the various platters and bowls automatically refilled themselves, so the volume of food that needed vanishing was overwhelming. After they had managed to remove all traces of food, they were faced with the task of repairing all damaged objects. By the time that they were finished, there were only a handful of teachers who had remained; most of the others had either gone to manage the disciplinary aspect of the incident or to clean up. When they finally finished at half-past eleven, there were maybe seven or eight teachers left.

Anne Wheeler had stayed as well, working silently. Phillip was still not sure exactly what to think about her... It was not as if they had spoken much prior to the vicious battle that they had been caught in. However, regardless of what he thought, she looked exhausted.

She was trying to hide it, but Phillip noted how she walked like she was carrying a heavy load, and how her eyes seemed to struggle to open as the night wore on. She had looked flustered when they had entered the hall at the beginning of the night, but that had been in a good way, a busy way. She always looked like that at her happiest during Quidditch games. This was different, this was pure fatigue. She looked absurd, covered in soup and tuna salad and dried dirt. It was almost as if she had been caught in an explosion in the kitchens. But then, he reasoned, he must look at least equally strange after the fight they had been through. He did not even want to think about what he must have looked like.

Phillip liked things pristine, filed away, neat. He could already tell that he looked like he had been dragged backward through someone's picnic.

Finally, when the last saucer had been repaired, one of the professors turned towards them. "Thank you, Mr. Carlyle and Ms. Wheeler," Professor Yan sighed softly as she wiped a dollop of steak and kidney pudding from her cheek. "Your help really was invaluable. I look forward to seeing the pair of you in the morning." The astronomy professor did not seem as bothered by the late hour, as the rest of them as she strode from the room. Even covered in scraps of dinner, her posture was ramrod straight.

"Right," Wheeler hummed softly, rubbing absently at one of the many spots of porridge on the side of her face. "Well, I will see you tomorrow, then, to hand out schedules. Good night." She turned to leave, and Phillip looked behind her with a bemused expression.

"What are you talking about?" he asked her in a surprised voice. "There's a Head Dormitory, remember? That's where the pair of us stay now so that the teachers have an easier time locating us."

Wheeler stopped in her tracks, seeming to puzzle it over in her sleep-deprived brain. "Right," she muttered. "Right. Um, do you happen to remember where..."

Her mouth fell open in a yawn, and Phillip nodded, answering the question before she finished it. "Yeah, it's just down the hall behind the third suit of armor. Come on we're both going to the same place anyway."

Phillip turned and began to walk, and he heard her footsteps squelching slightly behind him. The events of that night were beginning to set in, and his own body was rather sore as well. The walk to the suit of armor seemed much longer than it should have been, a fact that was encouraged by the rather awkward, uncertain silence that had settled between the pair of them. When the reached the armor suit, Phillip reached up and carefully pulled on the third finger of the armor suit's left hand. There was a creaking sound, and then the suit sank into the floor before them to reveal a large set of wooden doors behind it.

Phillip hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Wheeler. She returned his gaze with a slightly bleary look of expectancy, and so he grasped the handle on the door and pushed it open.

The room that met them was cozy, there was no denying that. It seemed to be divided into four sections, each with its own color: red, yellow, green, and blue. There was a large, embroidered rug that set the borders on the floor, and then the drastic change in the decoration of each side of the circular room completed the effect. On the red side, there was a roaring fireplace and a pair of comfortable-looking armchairs along with a sofa. The yellow side held many potted plants and a tea table. The green side of the room contained several tables with varying artifacts upon them, including several strange looking magical objects that let out puffs of smoke and whirred mechanically. The wall on the blue side of the room was filled with bookshelves all the way to the ceiling, which must have been forty feet in the air, and it held a table with a tea and coffee pot on top. In the green and blue sections of the room there were a set of desks, clearly meant for the Head Boy and Girl. A stone archway across the room led up a set of stairs where Phillip assumed they would find their dormitories, and a door between the blue and green sections of the room was labeled 'Washroom.'

The thought that they needed to bathe seemed to occur to both the Head Girl and to Phillip at the same time. Wheeler glanced up at him, and then she moved to begin to examine the various objects in the Ravenclaw section of the room. He blinked several times in her direction, surprised. "What are you doing?" he asked, coming off slightly more gruff than intended thanks to his need for sleep.

Wheeler glanced back up at him, and her eyes held acceptance. "You want to take a bath before bed, don't you?" she said, answering his question with a question.

"Well, yes, but... Don't you?"

"There's only one bathroom," she answered with a matter-of-fact tone. It was as if she expected him to take it without regard for her. He blinked again, trying to figure out exactly what she was thinking.

"Yes... But I don't want to take it from you," he said slowly. "I mean, I could always go to the Prefect bathroom and you can use this one."

"That one is all the way across the school," Wheeler replied. "And technically, you would be breaking curfew."

Phillip winced and ran a hand through his hair. "I mean... I don't really know, but you did as much as I did tonight," he murmured. The awkwardness between the pair of them was thick and heavy, and he was not sure what to do to lift it. He had a shrewd suspicion that his family's reputation might be causing it. The thought sent a pang through his chest, though he was not sure why. Why did he care what Anne Wheeler thought about him? He did not know, but he did, and he did not want her to think he was like the rest of his family. The worst part was that he was not sure that he appeared much different, with his elite group of friends and the time spent out at Hogsmeade spending their parents' money. That had never bothered him before, though...

For some reason that he could not explain, Phillip wanted to prove himself to the Ravenclaw Chaser.

"Well, it isn't as if one of us did more than the other. All I know is that neither of us is using it right now and that we both need to," she muttered tiredly.

"Well, then, why don't we?" Phillip suggested, trying to keep his voice nonchalant.

This seemed to catch her off-guard even in her sleep-deprived state, and her chocolate eyes were wide as she looked up at him. "What?" she said slowly, though he was certain she had heard him.

"If it's anything like the Prefect bathroom, it'll be massive," Phillip pointed out. "And if you won't go first, but I don't want to go first, the only obvious solution is that we go together."

Wheeler crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Really?"

"I won't look at you," he said firmly. A little smirk played on his lips. "Unless your problem is that you think that you won't be able to keep your eyes off me, in which case-"

"W-what?" she stammered, and though she shot him a glare, he thought he could see a little bit of a rosy tint to her cheeks that amused him to no end. "That isn't what I-"

"It's understandable, I mean, I've got a good figure, and nice-"

"I really don't want to know how you were planning on finishing that sentence," she interrupted, lifting her chin. "But... Fine. If I catch you looking at me, you won't have 'nice' anything for much longer."

Wheeler brushed past him and pushed open the door to the bathroom, and his playful gaze followed her as she entered the room. Yeah, she looked ridiculous. But then, so did he, and if they were going to be stuck together all year he might as well have fun with it. Not to mention that it was quite entertaining to cross swords with a wit as sharp as hers.

Phillip stepped into the bathroom, and his eyes widened. The whole room was black marble, from floor to ceiling. It was lit by wall sconces that emitted a warm light, and there was a massive tub in the ground, the same way there was in the Prefect bathroom. This one was deeper, however, and it had steps that led into it. There were tons of faucets, the same way that there were in the Prefect's bathroom, and the exhausted girl looked completely bemused by them. She instead gravitated towards a standing screen that was clearly made to change behind.

"You can do whatever you want with the water," she mumbled. "I'm going to change. If I see you looking, I'll... Well, normally I would threaten to murder you, but I just don't have the energy tonight, so it would probably just be a pretty nasty hex." With that, Wheeler was gone behind the screen, leaving an amused Phillip to tend to the water.

While Wheeler changed, Phillip began to fiddle around with the different taps. He particularly liked one that spewed water with a thick layer of soft foam on top, and so he overwhelmingly allowed that to fill the water. Despite his comments about her wandering eyes, he was a gentleman, and he did want to respect her modesty- especially after seeing proof of how well she could aim a spell earlier that night. The tub filled much more quickly than any Muggle tub would have, and he turned to face the screen to say, "It's full-"

He had just caught her peering out from behind the screen, wrapped in a white robe. Her face flushed, and she quickly darted back behind the screen again. "O-okay. I'm coming out, stay turned around until I tell you," she fumbled for words, and Phillip obediently turned around as well. He was glad for the excuse, because for some reason his face was warm. It was probably from the water, but he did not want her to think it was for any other reason.

Phillip stayed turned around, and he heard the sound of bare feet on the marble floor. There was the sound of cloth dropping to the ground, and then the water rippled and there was a slight splash. A long sigh of bliss left her lips, and his face heated up again. Maybe this was not such a good idea... No, what was he thinking? This really wasn't a big deal. They both looked terrible anyway, he was just tired. "Alright," she murmured, and he heard the sound of her moving to the far end of the tub.

Slowly, Phillip turned. He appeared slightly amused as he looked at her. The girl was up to her chin in white foam and had not had a chance to go under and clear her skin and her hair yet. "Are you standing on tiptoes?"

"Shut up," she mumbled, turning away from him. "Get changed, I'm not looking."

The smirk remained still as Phillip stepped behind the screen. He began to work on removing his robes, which was harder work than usual since they were plastered to his body with food. He caught a glimpse of Wheeler's ragged robes peeking out of a wicker clothing hamper, and a slight twinge of curiosity grabbed hold of him. She had been on his radar for a while, and that had been part of the reason. Often, several of the girls who flitted in and out of his group would mention her robes when she was brought up. For years, they had always been ill-fitting and old. It wasn't his business, but as Phillip threw his own robes over hers, he had to wonder why.

"Okay, stay turned around," he called as he wrapped a robe around himself. He padded across the marble floor, each step warm on his bare feet thanks to the steam from the hot water. He could see her figure on the other end of the tub, still several yards away. She appeared to be washing her shoulders and her upper back... He quickly looked away from her and tugged the robe from his shoulders. As he stepped into the pool, he let out his own soft moan of relief. Against his aching muscles, the hot water felt like heaven.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" she breathed softly. He glanced across the steaming water, where he could make out the figure of Anne Wheeler. She ducked under the water, and when she came up, her dark curls were soaked and plastered to her face. He hid a smile and tipped his head back, turning his back to her again as he focused on washing his hair. This proved to be more difficult than expected since there was a fair amount of dried food in it. It took what must have been a good six or seven minutes to finish before he could move on to scrubbing down, and he heard similarly frustrated mutterings from across the tub. If he was having trouble with his hair, he had no idea how she was managing.

Now that they were both in the pool, Phillip decided it was not so terribly awkward. In fact, it was kind of relaxing to hear the splashing across the pool. The soaps that were perched on ledges on the side of the pool caused Phillip to become slightly more sleepy, with the scent of pine making him drowsy. It was the same shampoo, he realized, that his uncle had bought him several years ago. It smelled of balsam and sandalwood, and the scent reminded him of one of his few happy memories at home. Based on the deep breaths that Phillip heard her taking, he assumed that there was some sort of enchantment on the room to alter soaps and the like to the preference of the person using them.

After he had finally managed to free himself of the last traces of the food fight, Phillip glanced across the pool. "I'm finished," he called. "Are you?"

"Mhmm," Wheeler murmured, coming slightly closer to his side of the pool. "I think so, yeah."

Upon catching a glimpse of her, however, Phillip spotted a bit of dried porridge in her hair that she had missed among her many curls. "Oh, wait," he called. "You still have a little in your hair... By your ear." The shorter girl moved her fingers to her hair, but it was the side opposite of the leftover food. Phillip shook his head and gestured to the approximate position on his head, but with the sheer amount of wet curls that Wheeler had, she continued to miss it. Phillip let out a quick breath. "Here... How about I get it for you?" he suggested. She stiffened, but he quickly interjected, "No, I mean- I can reach it from behind you, how about that? I'll just get it out, and then we can be done."

She hesitated, touching her hair one last time. She gave him a dubious glance, and he did not know why he seemed to be holding his breath. "Fine, whatever," she mumbled, turning her back to him. "I just need sleep."

Phillip took a deep breath and crossed the pool, careful as he came up behind her not to touch Wheeler anywhere by accident. He could not see anything, but now that he stood behind her, he could smell her shampoo... It was something flowery, Lilacs, maybe. Whatever it was, he had to stop himself from inhaling deep breaths. Hesitantly, he raised a hand to her hair. She was stiff, and all her muscles seemed to tense when he touched her. Phillip steadied his hand and carefully picked up the small, offending section. Between his fingers, her loose curls were soft. He had to stop himself from running his hand through her long hair, and instead quickly plucked out the last residue of the food fight. Phillip returned his hand to his side quickly, resisting the urge to hold on any longer than he was supposed to. He did not know why he wanted to... But her hair was beautiful, and it smelled amazing.

 _What the hell, Phillip?_ he scolded himself, slightly dazed.

At that moment, Wheeler moved to turn around, perhaps having forgotten how close he was behind her. She slipped on the floor of the tub, and their hips knocked softly underwater, her smooth skin against his, and he immediately jumped backward.

"Merlin, I'm sorry, Wheeler," he stammered, moving back and quickly turning around. "I didn't mean-"

"No, I just, I slipped," she quickly muttered, and he was extremely grateful that she could not see his face. Why was he this flustered?

"Right. Um, so I'll get out first, and then I can just grab the robe and go to my dorm, and then you have the bathroom to yourself," he quickly latched onto whatever topic he could.

"Yeah, yeah, and I'll get out so you can brush your teeth and stuff," Wheeler latched onto the train of thought. "I don't take long anyway."

"Okay," he said slowly. "Well... I'm getting out, alright?"

The water rippled, and he assumed she had nodded. Phillip quickly began to climb out, picking up the robe from the floor and wrapping it around his figure. "Well, goodnight," he called as he paused at the door, hoping he did not sound as awkward and uncertain as the words felt.

"'Night," she muttered, and he could not discern anything from her tone.

As soon as Phillip stepped out of the bathroom and into their Common Room, he ran a hand through his damp hair in a confused agitation. What in Merlin's name had happened in there?

He chewed his lip, turning the thought over in his mind and then batting it aside. No. He did not have the brainpower or the energy to be battling through that question tonight, and they had a big day the next morning, anyway. So, after pinching the bridge of his nose slightly and taking a deep breath, Phillip looked up and walked to his room, away from the bathroom and the girl with the lilac hair.


	3. The Package

When the Head Girl woke in the morning to the shrieking of her alarm clock, it was with a foggy head and a heavy body. She most definitely had not gotten enough sleep after the ordeal yesterday, even though doubling up on the baths had saved her a bit of time. The sleepiness did not help her to remember, as she sat up, exactly where she was. The room which Anne had found waiting for her was lovely, with pale blue walls and Ravenclaw hangings as well as a window that looked out over the grounds. There were several bookshelves and a closet made of the same dark wood as her four-poster, and the room was furnished in the timelessly beautiful way the rest of the castle was.

After a moment, her foggy head remembered that this was her room now, not a dormitory with four other girls she barely knew. She could only assume that Carlyle's room was sporting green and silver rather than blue and bronze, and the magic surrounding the room interested her.

As she peeled herself up from her bed, Anne stifled a yawn irritably with her fist and dragged herself to her school trunk. There, she began rifling through her meager belongings for a pair of socks. With the hand that was not in her trunk, she gripped her wand and mumbled, " _Accio_ _robes_." She pulled on a pair of worn knee-highs sporting the Ravenclaw colors as her robes flew into the room, nearly hitting her in the face. They were filthy, and Anne made a face at them as she began to murmur a few incantations, siphoning off the food and laundering them.

The problem with Anne's robes was that, frankly, they could only handle so much magic. She only had the one pair and she was as careful with them as possible, but she could only mend them so many times before the fabric would eventually not be able to take any more. It was already starting to show; well, it had started showing a long while ago. The material was frayed and faded and the hem was a few inches too high no matter what spells she threw at them.

When the robes were presentable and clean, Anne pulled them on and then put on her shoes beneath them. She glanced into the long looking glass that the room had provided and found the reflection of a girl who was clothed in a hygienic and modest manner, but one that also appeared shabby and worn. Anne let out a soft breath, knowing this was the best it was going to get.

Anne quickly pinned her hair up into the bun that she normally wore, hesitating for a moment as her fingers raked through her curls. For a moment, she remembered the strange events of the night before, in their bathroom. Carlyle had helped her remove a bit of food left in her hair, and his fingers had lingered in her curls for just a moment longer than she expected. She had been able to smell the scent of pine, and his hands in her hair had felt almost... Good.

And then, like the idiot she was, Anne had panicked and turned, bumping into him without clothes on. If he had not thought her to be a mess before then, he surely did now. It did not help that he seemed so intent upon engaging in banter with her. The Head Girl was competitive by nature and determined to have the last word, so she could not very well back down from his attempts to catch her off-guard. No matter what she did, it somehow seemed to amuse him... It drove her insane, and it had only been happening for a day.

When Anne realized she had been staring into the mirror thinking about Carlyle, she quickly finished pinning her hair into the bun and turned away from the glass.

The Head Girl picked up her school bag and slid the comfortable black satchel over her shoulder before exiting the dorm. Mercifully, the hallway outside the room was empty. All Anne needed to do was brush her teeth, and then she could be off. She quickly crossed the Common Room and pushed open the bathroom door, only to find the was not alone.

Carlyle was standing at the faucet and mirror all the way across the bathroom, styling his hair meticulously. He was clothed in a white t-shirt and a loose pair of pajama pants, and Anne was careful not to look at him for too long. She took a deep breath and made sure to remain in complete control of her face as she crossed the bathroom. He glanced up at her, muttering, "'Morning," and then returned to styling his hair into the same style he always wore.

Anne hummed in response, moving to the counter where she had left her toiletry bag the night before. She unzipped it and pulled out her toothbrush, running it under warm water in the second of two sinks. She began to brush her teeth, and as she did so, she fiddled with a loose curl that had escaped her bun. For some reason, she could not stop thinking about the events of the night before. It was foolish, she knew. There was nothing between them, and they barely knew one another. But they would not leave her mind no matter how hard she tried to make them.

When the Head Girl had finished brushing her teeth, she rinsed the brush under the water and relished the minty taste in her mouth. She was zipping up her bag when he said, "Wheeler?"

Anne looked up, a forced impassive expression spreading across her features. "Yes?"

"Unless you'd like another display of all this-" the smirking Slytherin gestured to his chest, and Anne felt her eyes widen in disbelief. "-I suggest you hurry up."

She blinked several times at him, caught off-balance. Finally, she managed to say, "Yeah, I don't fancy another look at your love handles, so I think I'll pass." She was such a bloody liar, and they both knew it. He was fit, which was not fair because the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain worked constantly on her broom to remain in shape and he just somehow was.

"Keep telling yourself that, Wheeler," Carlyle hummed, and when he looked at her his eyes gleamed with mischief. Anne shot him a look and turned, leaving her toiletry bag on the bathroom counter. She was glad that he could not see her face as she left the bathroom because it was rosy in a way that she loathed fiercely.

As soon as she left the bathroom, Anne let out an exhale that she prayed he could not hear through the door. She pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment, shaking her head. Their dynamic was strange, and she was not exactly sure what he was to her and vice-versa. But Carlyle certainly seemed to enjoy his attempts to fluster her, and he succeeded more often than she would have liked. Damn him, she decided as she walked to the Ravenclaw side of the room and began to prepare a cup of jasmine tea.

A few minutes later, when she was pouring her tea into a mug that her brother had bought her for her birthday with money they did not have, she heard the bathroom door open. She did not turn, only set the kettle down and turned with the mug of steaming goodness in her hands. There was no sugar in it; Anne did not want to taste anything but the earthy green tea and the delicate, floral jasmine. She did not mind the bitterness so long as it came with the former. She found herself holding her breath as she heard Carlyle approach, and for a moment she was unsure what he was going to do. A little breath of relief left her lips when she saw he was going to the coffee pot beside her.

Carlyle glanced down at her straight tea, devoid of milk or sugar, and wrinkled his nose. "Disgusting, Wheeler," he commented, though his voice was relaxed and more playful than unkind. Anne raised an eyebrow and took a deep sip, not breaking eye contact with him as she did so. He wrinkled his nose, but amusement filled his eyes as he looked at her. "Yeah, alright, to each their own," he consented as he turned to the pot. For a moment, the Head Girl leaned against the counter with her tea while he fetched a mug from the shelf above the counter. She figured they might as well go down to the Great Hall together since they had to hand out schedules that morning anyway. The coffee pot was clearly enchanted, as was the kettle; the water took much less time than it did in the Wheeler flat, where the old machines took their sweet time to warm the water. Anne took another sip of tea as Carlye poured himself a cup, adding liberal amounts of cream and sugar both. It was her turn to wrinkle her nose at his beverage choice.

"You're going to get diabetes," she decided as she stood up from the counter and walked to the door without seeing if he was following.

He was, and when he finished his sip of coffee, he had a mustache from the cream. Anne took pleasure in her decision not to tell him about the cream lining the top of his full lips. "Maybe you're so prickly because you don't take sugar," he decided to himself as he walked beside her. She was having trouble taking him seriously with the mustache.

"I am not prickly," she huffed. "I have a low tolerance for nonsense."

Carlyle took another sip of his coffee (if it could even be called that), humming happily. "If this is nonsense, then I'll take more, please," he replied, and the two were comfortably silent the rest of the way down the steps to the Great Hall.

When they entered, Anne was grateful that they were earlier than most of the students. Admittedly, they had a shorter commute than the rest of the students. Still, she liked being early to things. She was never late for anything because it felt like it was giving up control, losing it in a way that everyone would notice. The young witch held the mug of tea close to her chest as she and Carlyle walked down the center of the Hall to the Head Table. There, Professor Lutz was sitting with eyes that looked just as tired as Anne's and Carlyle's own.

When they approached, the charms professor nodded to herself, approval in her eyes. "There you are," she hummed, and though she did not smile, there was a proud sort of affection in her gaze. "I missed you last night, dealing with the aftermath of all of that, but I was informed by several staff members that you stayed into the night to help. Your actions have been noted. Now, schedules..." The professor raised her wand, and then in an instant, a large mass of scrolls appeared out of thin air. The pile divided itself evenly into two, and then one massive pile of schedules fell into the Head Girl's arms while the other fell into Carlyles. "You have Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, Ms. Wheeler, and I'm going to let you take a wild guess at which schedules I gave you, Carlyle."

Professor Lutz's eyes came to rest on Carlyle's upper lip, and the head of Gryffindor allowed a little sparkle of mischief to glimmer into her eyes. "I see you decided to make a change, Carlyle. Your mustache might need a bit more grooming than that if you're going to keep it."

Carlyle's eyes widened, and he turned, struggling to wipe his upper lip with the scrolls in his arms. Lutz gave Anne a knowing look before turning to walk back towards the table, and then the morning was off to a busy start.

* * *

Passing out the schedules took a great deal longer than it should have, thanks to a mix-up involving a set of First Year triplets. By the time they were done, Anne only had time to scarf down the rest of her tea and then rush to class. Anne was immensely grateful for the fact that most of her classes were spent going over basic etiquette and expectations. Anne was much too tired to deal with anything much more than that, and if she had been given homework, she might have started crying right then and there.

Anne spent a lot more time than she had expected with younger students. They approached her with questions in the hallway, particularly the First Years. Anne was flattered that they had chosen her to come to and that she was approachable to the younger students of Hogwarts. Though she was desperate to get away from the poverty that she and W.D. were trapped in through hard work, she would miss this castle and its students with her whole heart. She would have to leave, yes... But that did not mean that she would not leave a legacy behind.

Anne did her best at giving advice, telling the First Years tricks to get around the castle and how to keep from getting stuck in one of the moving staircases or open particularly stubborn doors by sweet-talking them. She made sure that she left them with smiles or looking visibly relieved, and the Ravenclaw tried her best to make sure that they did not think they were inconveniencing her, even if they were. After calming down a particularly panicked second-year student who did not know how to get to the Year Two greenhouse, Anne practically had to sprint to Herbology all the way across the grounds.

Anne slipped into the greenhouse where the Advanced Herbology class took place just as Professor Stratton called, "Wheeler, Anne."

"Present," she called breathlessly as the door closed with a thud behind her. Several of the students turned to glance back at her, and Anne heard whispers among the clump of Slytherin students who were gathered at the back corner of the greenhouse next to the Venomous Tentacula. The Head Girl noticed that the group was mostly boys from her year... Ones that she realized had been heavily associated with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, ones she often had in her detention for harassing younger students of Muggle descent. There were a few girls interspersed, many of the prettier ones from her year who came from rich families. And in the far back corner, Anne could see Carlyle, lounging against one of the greenhouse's glass walls as if he owned the place.

A little pang shot through Anne as she met his gaze, and then she quickly turned away.

Stratton was going on about protocol regarding the different lethal plants of the greenhouse, and Anne distanced herself slightly from the discussion. She had a way with plants and potions that had been noted by most of her professors, and her instincts generally carried her away from harm in the greenhouse. It was when she overthought things that she found herself in danger. As long as she understood the nature of the plants, she was always able to free herself from their grasp in record time.

It was while the Head Girl was zoning out that she heard the whispered conversation of the group in the back corner, an exchange she was sure they wanted her to hear.

"-Showing up late, and looking like that? Honestly," laughed Darya Flint, a tall girl with gorgeous green eyes and flawless ebony skin that matched the wood of her wand. "I swear, she hasn't bought robes since the Third Year."

Anne stiffened, and her hand tightened around the polished handle of her wand in her pocket. The beech wood seemed to warm up slightly in her grip as if it were trying to comfort her.

"It's hardly hygienic, is it?" agreed Cassia Harrows, the petite blonde who was always by Darya's side. "Probably stink like the sty she and her brother live in."

"I heard he's working in Hogsmeade now, at the Three Broomsticks," Darya murmured conspiratorily.

"Well, if we have to tolerate Mudbloods, at least they're scrubbing the counters like they should be," sneered Cassia.

Hearing them mock her brother, the brilliant wizard who deserved so much more than a sister to support and sleepless nights, caused her blood to run cold. Fury ran through her, and her wand seemed to suddenly feel like a chip of ice in her hands. It was itching to spring to action, sensing the emotions of its owner. But before Anne could do anything she regretted, she heard a quiet voice from the group.

"Can we please talk about something else?" the cool, bored voice of the Head Boy interrupted their conversation. Anne felt her eyes widen. Was he defending her? "I don't want to hear about any... Other girls." Anne was not facing him, but she could perfectly envision the smirk on his full lips, the one that he had whenever he was trying to rattle her. Anne's grip loosened around her wand, but she found herself feeling a bitter pang in her chest.

She had started to believe in him, last night during the food fight when their efforts managed to put an end to the madness. She had not thought they were friends exactly, but she had begun to imagine that maybe their partnership could be comfortable, beneficial to the both of them. But that had been foolish.

She had not been expecting him to leap to her defense, she had imagined that he might at least ask them to change the subject, plain and simple. Even if what he had just done was his attempt to put a stop to it, he had not come to the defense of his partner in a way that enabled her to say that for what it was. Instead, he was flirting with them, and she heard them let out little, almost simpering laughs in response. Anne turned back to Professor Stratton, shaking her head slightly.

Anne Wheeler was a fool for expecting him to be any different than she had imagined.

* * *

The rest of the day dragged by when all that Anne really wanted was sleep. She had skipped lunch in order to help a Fourth Year boy sort his schedule, and so when dinner time rolled around the Head Girl was absolutely starving. In favor of sitting alone at the table, Anne loaded a bowl full of French onion soup and took several warm, buttery rolls up to the Common Room, where she set them on the table in the middle of the table. It was then that she noticed a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, in the center of the table. The witch assumed it was for Carlyle, and she went to move it aside when her eyes landed on the tag on the crisp package. Her name was there, written in jet black ink and an elaborate scrawl.

Carefully, Anne took the package into her lap and untied the string. When she unwrapped the paper, she found a pair of robes in her hands. Anne's eyes narrowed as she turned them over, noting the Ravenclaw crest and the fact that they must have been brand new. A mixture of embarrassment and pure frustration washed over Anne in a single, powerful wave.

It was then that she heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

Anne turned and was met by the face of none other than Phillip Carlyle. She hated herself for noticing that his tie was loose around his neck, and he had clearly just been running his hands through his hair to smooth it back. His eyes widened when he saw her, and she thought she might have even seen a hint of fear when they took in her icy expression. Clearly, he had not been expecting her to be here.

"Wheeler," he greeted carefully. "Thought you would be down at the Hall."

"I have a lot to do tonight," she said coolly. Her narrowed eyes meeting his uncertain ones.

"Right," he muttered, glancing at the package in her lap. "Well, I was just setting down my things, so I'll just be-"

"How dare you." Anne's voice was quiet but sharp as steel, and he flinched.

"I don't know what you-"

"The robes."

He was a horrid liar, but he still attempted to defend himself. "I don't know what you're talking about," he fumbled. "But if you're talking about that package, it could have come from anyone. Maybe your mum was late sending the post."

"I don't have a mum."

This time, he had the decency to wince. "I'm sorry."

"No," she said quietly, dangerously.

"What?"

"I don't want your apologies, I don't want your pity, and I sure as hell don't want your charity," Anne spat. Her voice started out quietly, and then with every syllable grew louder. To punctuate the sentence, she wrapped the paper around the robes again and set them on the table. "I don't take charity, and your pity is insulting."

Carlyle's brow was furrowed over blue eyes, and he quietly began, "If this is about our-"

"Our what?" Anne hissed, shoving aside her chair and standing with clenched fists. His eyes flashed, and she thought she might have seen hurt. "Our partnership? Get over yourself, Carlyle. There is nothing between us, not friendship, not bloody teamwork. You are Head Boy, and I'm Head Girl, and that is all. I don't want anything else to do with you, especially not with your galleons. So you can take the money you spent on these damn robes and spend it on something more useful, like maybe having someone surgically remove your second face."

Anne ignored what she thought might be a mixture of frustration and hurt in Carlyle's eyes, but at least he had the decency not to say anything as Anne stood and turned on her heel. She raised her wand, and the tray from the table floated over behind her. The soup sloshed dangerously and she stormed past him towards her room. As soon as she was inside, she lowered the soup to the bedstand and let the door slam shut behind her.

Anne wasn't hungry anymore, so she pulled aside the covers of her bed forcefully and slid beneath them, forcing herself to think about anything but hurt blue eyes.


	4. The Little Scandal

"-and she slammed the door. I mean, who does that, who slams the door?"

" _Whoot_?"

Phillip ran a hand through his hair in frustration, pulling his silver and green tie from his neck as he turned to face the owl where it sat in its cubby. The barn owl that sat therein blinked several times at Phillip, a gaze which its owner took as an expectant one, asking him to continue.

"Wheeler," he said impatiently. "Wheeler does that, because I messed up. I... I messed up big time, bloody hell." Phillip pressed his hands to either side of his nose, running them up through his hair and effectively ruining its neat appearance. The owl stared at him for a minute, then began to hop from its perch to one leg of the stepladder Phillip was leaning on. Phillip turned to look down at the owl, who was currently interested in the dangling tie. The white bird hopped up a step on the ladder and began to peck at the end of the tie, then took it in its beak and nibbled it. "You could at least disagree with me."

" _Woo_ ," agreed the bird in a coo, giving the tie a sharp tug and pulling it free from Phillip's neck. The weight of the tie caused the owl to tumble down with it, and both owl and tie landed unceremoniously in a heap on the straw-covered floor of the Owlery.

This was apparently not an uncommon occurrence, because Phillip stepped down from the stool to pick up the bundle of feathers that was currently chewing on the tie. Phillip set the ruffled mess of feathers onto his shoulder, and the owl set down the tie in favor of nibbling his earlobe instead.

Phillip glanced out the window at the sprawling grounds below. The sun was out, but it was watery and unfocused, weak where it should have been strong. The breeze had just enough bite in it to be uncomfortable as it played with Phillip's messy hair. The owl seemed unbothered by it, however, so Phillip decided it was alright.

"I let her down, boy," he said quietly, and for a moment, the owl looked at him in the eyes seriously. "I barely know her, and I let her down, and now I'm never going to get the chance to fix it, because she hates me. And she probably should." Phillip had not realized he was clenching the material of his robes in his hand until he realized his knuckles ached. He released the robes in favor of pinching the fabric between his middle and index finger, rubbing it back and forth absently. "How idiotic is that?"

" _Wrrt_ ," clicked the owl as it resumed in its fascinated prodding at Phillip's ear.

He let the animal have its way as he stared out the window, turning over the previous day's events in his mind. Darya and Cassia often lingered around Phillip and the other members of his group. They were the elite- Carlyle, Avery, Rosier, Mulciber, Fawley, and Rowle, as well as a handful of sixth and fifth years whose presence was tolerated. Several of them were more active in pursuit of the Dark Lord's goals, tormenting Muggle-born classmates verbally. Phillip had always steered away from that, but he had never stopped them, either. Lately, the behavior had gotten more and more escalated. They ruled the school, after all, they were the seventh years. A little detention did not seem an effective threat for any of them since most except Phillip had spent time enough there to know that it was not such a bad punishment.

And then, yesterday, the two girls whose idle tongues had annoyed him before had chosen Wheeler as their next target. He had heard them gossip about practically every girl at Hogwarts, even Wheeler herself before. So what had made it different, the day before?

Phillip's brain threw the answer at him immediately. Wheeler, covered in mud and tuna salad, aiming a spell with stunning accuracy. Full lips, heavy with sleep, muttering " _Reparo_ ," for the hundredth time late into the evening as they cleaned up the Great Hall. The smell of lilacs filling the air and soft twists of wet brown hair in between his fingers.

"Damn it," he muttered, kicking the step stool and immediately regretting it. His toes ached through his shoe, and the owl on his shoulder let out a startled squawk.

"I don't know what the stool did to you, but I hardly think that it deserves your abuse," muttered a voice from behind him.

Phillip stiffened, turning to be met with the very face he had been thinking about. Wheeler stood there with a scroll in her grasp. It was strange, seeing her on the weekend because she was wearing Muggle clothing. She wore denim pants and a loose, faded knit cardigan that was clearly far too large for her. The hair that he had definitely not been thinking about was still in a bun, but not the usual meticulous one she wore during the school week. This one was thrown haphazardly atop her head, and it was messy in a way that made Phillip wonder what it would look like with one tug, slipping out of the style and tumbling down her back.

"Maybe I should apologize, then," he said quietly. His voice was soft and serious. She visibly stiffened, but her eyes did not leave his.

For a moment, she just looked at him, and then she was moving to a perch upon which a tawny owl, one of the school's, was sleeping. The owl let out a grumpy croak as she began to work on tying the scroll to its leg, and Wheeler focused intently on it. However, this particular owl was not having it. The creature nipped at her fingers with a sharp beak, and Phillip winced every time it came too close.

"You can use mine," he found himself volunteering. His voice contained a note of hope that he could not erase, and Wheeler looked up at him sharply. Her eyes found the owl perched on his shoulder, however, and he saw her gaze soften against her will.

"The one that is currently making out with your ear?" she pressed, and Phillip knew that she was trying to hide a little smile. The owl on his shoulder let out a soft ' _mrrp_ ' as it continued to nip at Phillip's skin.

"That would be the one," he laughed softly, offering her a strained smile. "He's a quick one, and trusty. Maybe not the brightest, but he'll get your delivery made."

Wheeler's eyes did not leave the bundle of ruffled feathers, and then the owl stopped chewing Phillip's ear. Though its body stayed facing Phillip, the bird's head began to turn in her direction in a way that only an owl's could. "Hmmph," she murmured, and there was a little glimmer of affection in her eyes. "Alright, if..." she paused, unsure.

"Scandal," Phillip finished, offering the owl's name. Wheeler turned her bemused gaze to him, and his face heated up. "Don't make fun, you'll hurt his feelings." He offered her a small smile as a sort of peace offering, but to his disappointment, all amusement left her eyes when she turned to him.

"If Scandal is up for a delivery to Hogsmeade, then he's my bird," she said quietly.

The bird on Phillip's shoulder let out a quick, sharp hoot as it began to flap its wings. With one swift movement, Scandal was gliding across the room, coming to a flapping stop on the roost beside the tawny. The sleeping, older owl let out an irritated screech, shuffling away from Scandal and shoving its head under its wing to get more sleep. Scandal lifted his leg up eagerly to Wheeler, and this time she had no difficulty tying the scroll to his leg.

"W.D. is in Hogsmeade, in one of the flats above the Three Broomsticks," she hummed, quietly talking to the bird. Phillip knew he probably was not meant to hear what she said, but he found himself listening anyway. "He should be working, though. He's always working." The owl let out a chirrup of understanding, looking at Wheeler expectantly when she had finished tying the letter. Wheeler, clearly used to the bird just taking off, sent Phillip a confused glance.

"You need to scratch him, right in his neck," Phillip explained. He crossed the Owlery and moved to demonstrate for Wheeler, and the owl closed his eyes and let out a coo of happiness. A ghost of a smile played with her lips as she mimicked the gesture, and Scandal leaned into her touch. Phillip did not blame the bird.

As soon as she had finished, the bird leaped into the air. It took Scandal a few flaps to catch his balance, but before Phillip knew it the bird was soaring out the window. The two of them were left alone in the Owlery, side by side. Phillip reached out for words, any words. However, before he could say anything, Wheeler muttered, "Thanks."

She began to walk away, and he could not stop her, because he had given her every reason to do so.

* * *

That afternoon at lunch, Phillip had finally managed to shake the feeling of frustrated unease away. The morning had been spent lounging on the grounds beside the lake with Fawley, Rowle, and Avery- Rosier and Mulciber had somehow managed to land themselves detention within the first day. Their talk had been of Quidditch and summer family dinner parties, as well as of basic school news and developments in their families, all members of the Sacred Twenty-Nine. The conversation had been easy to lose himself in under the leaves of the beech tree, and Phillip was finally beginning to feel slightly more like himself.

Lunch was more relaxed, and Phillip was able to join in with the joking that the other members of their group encouraged. With these people, Phillip had a large portion of the final say. If he laughed, it was funny, very much so. If something was said that was dull and he voiced the opinion, the others were likely to agree. The influence fave him power, made him feel in control of something for once in his life.

Phillip had been comfortable, sitting at the table, until he noticed something out of the corner of his eye from the Gryffindor table.

One of the students, a boy, had just received his post, and he was staring down at the letter clenched in his grasp with a completely shattered expression. Tears pooled in his eyes, and Phillip could tell that one of the other students in his friend group had made a teasing comment because his round face was red and his chin trembled under tight, kinky curls. Before he knew it, Phillip was excusing himself and approaching the table, and on the way, he was tapping Wheeler on the shoulder.

The Head Girl looked up from her sandwich with flashing eyes, but before she could say anything, Phillip gestured to the student and continued on his way. The Ravenclaw seemed to understand then, and he could tell she was going to follow behind him.

Phillip approached the Gryffindor table, and the students all stopped their conversation to watch the Seventh Year with wide eyes. "Hello," he said, offering them all slight smiles. However, his eyes did not leave the one student, who appeared to be wishing for a hole to open up and swallow him. It was Hogwarts, anything was possible. "Can I borrow my friend for a moment?" Phillip gestured to the ruddy-faced boy who looked up at him, slowly nodding. He rose from the table, and Phillip began to walk. Gently, he wrapped his arms around the boy's shoulder. "Take deep breaths," he hummed to the trembling student. "I know it's hard, but you need to breathe. If you can do it, breath in for four counts, hold it for seven, and then breathe out for eight. Here, I can do it with you."

The boy seemed to be fumbling for words, but when Phillip began to do it, he slowly attempted to copy the exercise. Wheeler had cleared a path out of the hall, and so when the doors closed behind the three of them, it was with much less resistance than he had expected. The jabbering of the hall faded into a peaceful silence, And Phillip crouched down beside the younger student. Carefully, he moved to take the letter that the boy was clutching so tightly that his knuckles were white. "I know," he said quietly as the boy resisted. "I'm not going to read it, but it's only going to make it worse." For a moment, the boy held tight to it, and then he released it slowly. Phillip passed the letter to Anne, who took it and stepped back. She seemed to understand that she would not be very much help here.

Phillip gently helped to lower the boy so that they were both sitting with their backs against the wall. "Okay, keep breathing," he told the shaking boy. "Now..." He took the boy's hand in his own, holding it in a secure grip. "What does my hand feel like?"

"Wh-what?" the boy fumbled through shaking lips. A few tears had fallen, but Phillip did not acknowledge them.

"What does my hand feel like on yours?"

The bow furrowed his brow through the tears, struggling to put words together. "It... it's war-rm," he stammered. "And t-tight. It's tight."

"Good," Phillip encouraged. "What else?"

"It..." The First Year seemed to be concentrating harder now, and the shaking in his body was not as strong. "It's shaped like a... Like a square, sorta. And it's smooth."

A small, warm smile slid onto Phillip's features, and he paid no attention to Wheeler, who was watching with quiet eyes. "Good," he said soothingly. For a moment, they sat in silence, and Anne slid onto the boy's other side. Then, Phillip said, "What did they say?"

The boy was quiet, and his eyes were focused on the massive doors across the Entry Hall. "I was supposed to be in Ravenclaw," he said quietly. "My mum and dad and both my sisters are, and most of my family, and... And everyone. And I'm supposed to be, too." The tears were falling, but as long as Phillip did not acknowledge them, them, the boy did not seem inclined to either. "But it doesn't make sense. I'm supposed to be brave."

"And you are," Phillip said firmly. "It takes a lot of courage to fight your own mind every day, okay?"

"But sometimes I'm not strong enough."

"Most days, neither am I."

The boy turned to look at Phillip with wide eyes. "You... You have them, too?"

"Mostly at night." Phillip looked only at the boy, trying not to think about how Wheeler was hearing all of this. "But you calmed down a lot faster than I do."

The boy offered Phillip a slightly lopsided smile. "Thanks," he finally mumbled. "But, um, what do I tell..." He dropped off his sentences, unsure.

"Tell them that I had to tell you about my crush on you," Wheeler decided from the boy's other side, offering him a little grin. It was not patronizing, but rather mischievous. "When I see you in the hallway, I'll make sure to blow kisses."

The student's eyes lit up, and he grinned too as he stood. "They're not gonna believe that."

"Oh, I'll make them, just give me a name," she said firmly.

"Edison," the boy informed her. She nodded, and his grin widened. "This is gonna be so great."

"You just better not cheat on me," she joked playfully, and as Phillip stood, he offered the kid his own smile. "Yeah, you hit the jackpot. You'd be an idiot to mess up with her." Phillip's eyes met Wheeler's, and her smile slowly faded.

The kid did not seem to notice as he took his letter, crumpling it up in his palm. "I'll see you later," Edison said cheerfully, and then he turned and walked into the hallway. Wheeler and Phillip were left alone, and neither broke their stare

"Wheeler-"

"I know," she said quietly. "I told you... I don't want apologies."

"And you won't need them from me anymore," he said quietly. He was not perfect, but he would damn well try not to let her down. "Partners?" Slowly, he offered her a lopsided grin, and Wheeler took a breath.

"Partners," she agreed. Her gaze softened ever-so-slightly, and then she turned and walked back into the Great Hall. Phillip was left alone, smiling slightly to himself as he allowed the worry clenched in his stomach to finally relax.


	5. The Tryouts

Anne had not been expecting to feel the urge to forgive him so quickly.

But after the First Year student, she had been unable to resist it. She had been completely helpless to calm the student down, and then in front of her, Carlyle had opened up to the boy about the fact that he struggled with the same thing. It would have been so easy simply to comfort him as best as he could, but Carlyle took it to another level, despite the fact that she had been there- and as far as he knew, she would use anything he gave her against him after what he had done. And then he had looked at her and told her that she was not the type of person that anyone wanted to lose.

Anne did not know why her heart had pounded so fiercely, but when he said that, it did. Still, she had stood her ground, and he had made her a promise that she would not receive his pity ever again.

That night, Anne did not go down to dinner. She needed time to think, away from him. Things could go back, she decided to herself... To their 'normal,' whatever it had been before. She did not expect him to go about defending her, fighting her battles for her. That was something she needed to do for herself, and both understood that. She knew he was from a completely different world than her, and she did not intend on pulling him away from it. Yes, it caused a slightly painful ache in her chest, but that hardly mattered. Just because she had her world and he had his did not mean that they could not coexist in the neutral ground that was their Common Room. There, they existed in the same space, and that was enough. If Phillip was going to leave the world of family ties, pure blood, and glittering silver, he was going to have to do it himself.

She would not make any attempt to drag him away when it would mean nothing unless he walked away himself. Besides, why should he leave? They were partners, but nothing more. He had his friends and she had W.D.

Anne sat in the common room by herself in front of the fireplace, curled up in a squishy red armchair that felt absolutely amazing. She had received a lot of homework, and it had taken hours for her to finish a thirty-two-inch essay for Advanced Potions. But now she was done with that, Anne was not ready to set down the quill and go to bed. It was eleven 'o clock, but the Head Girl had decided to take on the task of memorizing the names of the First Years. After that morning, it seemed important. They had a massive transition to make, and she wanted to be able to help as much as possible. How, she questioned herself, was she supposed to do this if she did not even know their names?

It was late, and the fire burned lower and lower. The smell of the wood smoke was soothing, too soothing, and the Ravenclaw found herself nodding off repeatedly. She had been making a list, pasting tiny pictures down neatly and then writing the names from the student registry beside them so that she could look over them in class. It was a neat and self-explanatory system, but her mind was completely exhausted. Anne's fingers felt fuzzy and clumsy, and then, before she knew it, Anne was sinking into darkness.

When she opened her eyes, she saw eyes, staring at her.

She was in the center of a room of all black, someplace she did not recognize. Faces with blurred, grotesque features stared at her. Each face looked like it was made of wax that had been disturbed while melted, but the eyes were all the same. They focused on her, staring her down as hands pointed wands in her direction. Anne looked down, but she had no wand- she had nothing at all. No clothing, no shoes, nothing to separate herself from them and her. It was then that a jet of light escaped one of the wand tips, and she was levitating before them. The faceless mob did not touch her, but they reached out for her with clawed hands holding wands. Sparks escaped one, scorching her skin. A scream left her lips, but no one reacted. More sparks- on her face, her arms, her chest, her legs. Where they touched, her own skin burned, becoming as waxy and distorted as theirs. She smelled something burning as sparks nestled in her hair, smoldering there despite her screams.

When she looked up, a skull with a serpent in its mouth leered down at her.

"Wheeler, Wheeler!"

Hands gripped her arms, and Anne let out a cry of panic as she struggled to beat them away. Immediately, they released her, and she tumbled to a hard landing on the floor as she struggled to free herself from what she realized was a blanket, trapping in the heat of her body. Anne still smelled smoke as she struggled to extricate herself from folds of fabric, flinging it fiercely across the room. It was the fire, she realized. Something was smoldering in the grate... The scorched remains of what she thought might be an envelope. Yes, she was certain it had been a letter, she could see the green wax of a seal bubbling on the edge of one of the logs, the way her own skin had when met with sparks.

Anne greedily drew in the air with ragged breaths, and before she realized it she was cradling herself in her own arms. She was on the floor, curled up with her knees held to her chest. Something damp dripped onto her robes, and she realized the source of the moisture was her own eyes. She did not bother to brush the tears away, only struggled to close her mouth. She had been screaming silently, and Anne only realized this when she stopped and found her throat raw.

Anne looked up to see who had grabbed her, and her stinging brown eyes met the deep blue pools of Carlyle's.

His face was a mixture of panic and worry, pure and simple. He towered over her, simply looking down at the huddled form of the girl on the floor. Anne's eyes traveled past him, and she realized he had been sitting in the other armchair. On the table beside it was a roll of parchment... her own, she realized. It was the list she had been making of the first years, but it was much longer than it had been when she last remembered doing it. He had continued his work with the same meticulous care she had used.

Anne looked back to him, and she struggled to speak through parched lips. "N...Night-t..." She swallowed over her sore throat before trying again. "Nightmare." She loathed the weak, scratchy tone of her voice right then, but Anne tried to ignore it as she took her hands and buried her face in them. For a moment, she just breathed and wiped the moisture from her cheeks. When she looked up, he was kneeling down before her, appearing hesitant.

"Wheeler," he said quietly. "You're exhausted. Come on, let me help get you to bed." His hand was stretched towards hers, and her throat seemed to close up at the idea.

"N-no, no," she found herself whispering, almost pleading. She loathed herself for it, but she was. "I can't, I don't- It'll happen again." She was shaking, like a leaf almost.

"You don't have to go to your room," he offered quietly, not removing his hand. "Lay down in the chair, and I'll stay here and work on this. If it happens again, I swear that I will wake you."

Anne chewed her lip. "Promise?" she found herself asking.

"Promise."

Slowly, Anne took his hand and used it to pull herself up. Edison had been right... It was smooth against her own hands, which were roughened from the wood of a broomstick. She walked as if in a daze to the chair, where she curled up. A moment later, she felt the warmth of the blanket being thrown at her. Anne let out a muffled groan, turning to adjust it.

"Bloody sadist," she mumbled sleepily. "Don't... You don't need to do the chart."

"You know it," he hummed, amused. "And I'm Head Boy, Wheeler. I'm the only one who doesn't have to do what you say."

She fell asleep to the sound of crackling embers and the rustling of parchment as he unrolled the student registry again.

* * *

The next morning, neither said much of anything about the events of the previous night. Carlyle had fallen asleep in the armchair across from Anne, and when she woke, she threw a crumpled piece of parchment his direction to make sure he got up. The pair of them got ready in an easy dance, making tea and coffee and exchanging insults about one another's beverages the way they had a few days prior.

That day was going to be a good one, because it was Quidditch tryouts.

Nothing could dampen Anne's mood- not the massive amount of Herbology homework they had, the fight between three Fourth Years and a Second Year who held his own surprisingly well, and certainly not the fact that it was raining in icy sheets. As Anne walked out onto the field in her robes, she did not seem to care that the rain was drenching her curls and blue robes. She was on the Quidditch Pitch, and she was going to fly.

Tryouts began with the Chasers. The rain seemed to discourage several, and this was an immediate turn-off for Anne on their parts. They would be playing in the rain, sleet, and fog, so it was imperative that they be able to fly in any conditions. But the exercises made Anne feel alive. They passed a Quaffle, having been separated by Anne into two teams. The game was fierce, fast-paced. If there was one thing Anne loved about the Ravenclaw House, it was the competitive nature of the students. They were fighting, ignoring ties of house and friendship for the time being to work towards one goal. Anne took everything she saw into account, playing alongside them and manipulating the game so that it went the way that she wanted it to. Response time, ability to pass, agility, speed... Everything played a part in her decisions. She would make them now, before everyone else, and they knew it. Anne saw no point in waiting to let her memory taint what her sharp eyes deduced.

She selected Coleman, a blonde Sixth Year girl whose talent for quick, neat passes and stealing the Quaffle with light fingers would serve them well. She also chose Fourth Year Acuna who had a knack for catching with startling accuracy, even passes that seemed as though they should be completely impossible. For Beaters, she selected sturdily built Spinghel and the reedy Nichols. Nichols had been on the team the year previous, and her performance that day showed she had not allowed her previous success to make her comfortable. The girl's slender form was deceptive, for her swing was powerful and accurate enough that she could aim between players on her own team with the Bludgers and not harm anyone. Swenson was a returning player as well, being one of the trustiest Keepers Anne had ever had the fortune to play with. Finally, the last addition to their team was found in Sparks, a skinny Second Year who was a surprise to Anne. But his keen eyes and propensity for sharp turns made him the perfect choice for their team.

The pitch became emptier and emptier as more players left, and those who had been chosen slowly began to fill a bench in the back. They were soaked, and Anne could tell they were exhausted; they should have been. She had drilled them hard and pitted them against one another. But the satisfaction in their faces made Anne feel warm through the icy rain. They were united by the circumstances of her hard drilling and the freezing rain, and this allowed room for bonding. By the time Sparks was selected, the other members of the team cheered thunderously for the skinny underclassmen. As the rest of the students who had tried out left the field, Anne was able to address the team.

"Congratulations," she called through the roaring wind, offering them a rare but well-earned smile. Anne may not have been a particularly warm or cuddly person, but after the night she had had, this success made her hopeful. "Don't get complacent. We're going to have a hard season, I can tell. The Hufflepuff team is almost all Seventh Years, which is great for next year's team, but not for us. Still, I think we can do it. If they fall into the trap of relaxing where we can't afford it, we will be alright. And I want the trophy this year. No pressure, but I have six trophies under my belt, and I want to leave with seven."

A series of chuckles swept through the team, and Anne knew she had said the right thing. This season would be a fight, but it would be a good one.

"Now, hit the showers. Make sure you warm up your bones and get rest, we can't afford to be getting sick. Get ready. These next few weeks are going to be brutal. They're also going to grow every single one of us."

The team took that as their orders to disperse, and everyone shook hands with one another as they left. Anne could not seem to stop grinning. She was proud of this team, and she had flown. Rain or not, she loved it.

Anne took a shower to rinse herself of the mud that spattered her in the locker room, but she did not bother with soap. Instead, over the running water, she listened to the interactions of the others. Some were more familiar with one another than others, simply based on age. But everyone seemed to be making an effort, especially to include the much younger Sparks. They did not force anything, Anne could tell. They all knew they would be spending a lot of time together, getting to know one another's rougher edges and more difficult spots. However, the struggles they faced would only be the working of grime through the gears of a well-oiled machine.

Before Anne knew it, they were saying goodbyes, and she was the last one left.

Anne had changed into a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved shirt over a jacket, and as she left the locker rooms, she clutched her broom in her hands. She was approaching the shed, but then Anne's eyes found the Quidditch Pitch one last time. Something clicked, a tugging in her navel that pulled her towards it. The rain was falling in icy sheets, and she knew it would soak her without mercy. But her hair was already wet and loose down her back, and she wanted to be in the middle of it all... The stormy clouds made the Pitch that much her own.

Before she knew it, Anne was dumping the bag that held her wet Quidditch thing in the shelter of the overhang by the broom shed. With her broom clenched in her hand, she ran through the rain, feeling its cold bite soak through her black clothing. Anne ignored that, and for a moment, she just stood in the very center in the wet sand. Her jogging had splashed it onto her black leggings, and she already felt mud on her trainers. Anne ignored that, closing her eyes as she stood there in the middle of it all with a tinging in the pit of her stomach.

Anne had played with Ravenclaw since her very first year. Her abilities with a broom had been undeniable, and her affinity for the air was obvious to anyone who saw her. She was fast, enough so that if one blinked they might miss her. But more than that Anne had an agility, a fearless understanding of the air that allowed her to perform feats that seemed like death wishes. W.D. had a similar talent, but they both knew that Anne was more graceful, more unafraid, more in love with the feeling of no air beneath her feet. So he had bought her the best broom he could for her last birthday, even though he could not afford to.

Said broom quivered in her hands, waiting for her to mount.

Anne opened her eyes, and in an instant, her soaked, sand-spattered legs were on either side of the broom. Just one slight nudge and the intuitive broom was shooting upwards at an angle that might have been dangerous had she not been holding tight with confident hands. Anne held tight to the broom, allowing herself to roll in sharp spins as it shot up at a ninety-degree angle. Anne felt the wind tear a laugh from her lips, loosing it to the storm forever. Maybe the winds would carry it away from here and on somewhere, where she could find it again once she had escaped the ties of her blood and her status. It did not matter to her now. Here, she was free.

Once Anne was sufficiently high enough (a good fifty feet up), she allowed the broom to level and slow in speed until it was not shooting as much as it was drifting. If her previous actions had not been insane enough, she fluidly continued in her stunts. These were things she could not do in a game unless she got herself into a very specific situation. Anne perched on the broom, slowly swinging one leg so she practically sat sidesaddle. Then, she let go.

Anne was hanging upside down from her broom by her knees as she soared through the air lazily, letting her hands stretch free towards the sand below. Lazily, playfully, even, Anne used her foot to nudge the broom so that it stopped midair, and then it began to spin like a pinwheel, with Anne hanging loosely from it. The helplessness of the dream could not reach her up here.

Anne drifted like this for several seconds until she found herself wanting to shift positions to keep the blood from rushing to her head. Anne reached up and gripped the wood with her fingertips, and then she slid her legs free. The shift of weight caused the broom to dip slightly as she dangled free, and her stomach dropped delightfully as it did so. For a moment, Anne was holding on by her fingers. Then, she pulled herself up in one effortless movement, hooking the broom under her arms. She was soaked and she was in the middle of the fierce wind, and she probably looked a mess with her curls plastered to her face and her clothes sticking to her body. But the cold made her feel alive, and she kicked playfully at the open air like a child dipping their toes off of a pier.

"Merlin, Wheeler, get down from there! You're going to get caught in one gust of wind and then you'll break your neck, and I'll have to do rounds tomorrow at night all by myself."

Anne stiffened, and for a moment she almost dangerously dropped a few feet in the air. Anne glanced down below, and standing in the center of the ring holding an umbrella was Carlyle. His robes billowed in the wind, and she almost laughed at how windswept he looked, a strange look for the meticulous Slytherin.

She did not laugh, however, because she realized that he must have been watching her, with her soaked hair making her look like a drowned cat and her leggings and top plastered to her like a second skin.

"Honestly, Carlyle, do you have to scare a girl like that?" she demanded. Anne obliged, however, though not completely as he might have wished. She tipped one end of the broom downwards, closing the distance so that she was only ten or so feet from the ground now. The descent was slow, and since Anne was not riding properly, she had to carefully control every movement. Her feet were pointed in her trainers as she lightly scooped at the air with them, a gesture that appeared to be a mixture of tiptoe and treading water. "You're the only real danger here. Have you been here the whole time?"

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she was surprised up close exactly how windswept his hair was. Although it was not wet, the wind had tousled it so that it looked wild, disheveled, the way it did after every Quidditch game. She did not know why it was so easy to imagine running her fingers through it and the smell of pine. "Had to scope out the competition. It was not too difficult to blend in underneath the stands."

"Of course," she muttered. "Bloody cheater. If you can't pick your own team members without seeing how I do it first-"

"I already chose my team," he hummed, waving a breezy hand. "I wanted to see the style of our opposition. We've got to get past you if we're going to get Hufflepuff, we can't win on my looks alone."

"Your team must be quite grateful that they're not being judged on your looks."

"I am hurt, Wheeler. If you must know, popular opinion is that I am the most attractive student in the school."

"And whose opinion is this? Cite your sources, Carlyle."

He gave her an amused smirk, shaking his head. "I was scoping out this year's talent, and then I had to look over my notes. So imagine my surprise when the slave driver of the Quidditch team went back on her own advice to come out in the rain and give the whole world a heart attack on her broom."

Anne hummed, hooking her legs over the broom again and releasing. The soaking curtain of her curls slid off of her shoulder in favor of hanging from her head. "It is not anything I have not done before," she countered. "I am as much an expert at this as you are at coming second to me in everything you do."

Carlyle arched an eyebrow, and the smirk only increased. "Is that a challenge, Wheeler?" he hummed. "Because I will have you know that we are bitterly going to defeat you this year." He took a step towards her, closing his umbrella in favor of fixing her with a lively stare.

"Not if I have anything to-"

It was at that moment that the wind intensified, howling in Anne's ears and causing her muscles to stiffen. The gale combined with the redistribution of Anne's weight knocked the broom from the air and suddenly Anne was free-falling. Carlyle cried out, and suddenly he was rushing towards her. As she fell, Anne collided with him, knocking him down with her.

The wind whipped her hair, obscuring her view. The wind was knocked from Anne's lungs as she went spiraling with Carlyle, their bodies rolling with the wind over one another several times. When they finally came to a stop, Anne was beneath Carlyle. His arms were on either side of her, keeping them from rolling again. Her hair was sprawled out in the red sand behind her head, but several curls were plastered to her bare collarbone. The wet sand coated both of them thickly now, and it was streaked all through Carlyle's face and hair as he propped himself over her. His body rested on top of hers as she fought to catch her breath, and he stared at her with wide eyes. Her own lips were parted slightly in shock, and she could smell the scent of his pine soap as she looked up at him. His weight atop her was dizzying, and her eyes met his own icy blue irises. They flickered, just for a moment, down to his full lips, one of which was being held lightly by his teeth. She could not breathe, could not move. She was drenched, and her clothing presented little barrier between them at this point.

For a moment, the pair of them sat there, Anne's broom beside them, just staring. Then, Anne finally managed to choke out, "C-Carlyle, I can't breathe."

"I... You... Right," he stammered, rolling off of her. Anne immediately sat up and wiped her face of the grainy sand, blinking several times. She glanced in his direction.

"Are you... I didn't hurt you, did I?" she questioned worriedly.

"How could you? You're about the size of a spaniel," he countered, earning him a glare as he wiped his face. His eyes locked on hers, and the amusement faded as they flickered to her cheekbone.

"Wheeler, you've got a..." he began quietly, thoughtfully. he took a step towards her, reaching out with his hand as if it was moving of his own accord. His hand cupped her face, with his fingers coming to rest on the nape of her neck as he lightly brushed her cheek with a thumb, removing one last bit of sand.

They were so close, and his touch made her chest feel like someone had released a million lightning bugs inside of her. For a moment, she forgot about the cold and the wet and her sore body, and her eyes found his lips.

Her heart leaped, and she snapped out of it.

"Thank you," she mumbled stiffly as she took a step backward, forcing his hand to stop cupping her cheek.

This seemed to bring him back to the present, too. "I need to go make... Work through my notes," he stammered. "Now you're down, you'd better take some sort of warm shower."

"You, too," she said, gesturing to him. "I don't know it the water will be able to warm your heart, but it should feel good on the rest of you." It was a stupid attempt at a quip, and it had failed. But he offered her a small, uncertain smile anyway.

"Bye, Wheeler," he said. "Don't go falling another couple stories between here and the Common Room." Then, he turned and began to walk away, leaving Anne alone with her broom in the center of the pitch.


	6. The Patronus Charm

Phillip and Wheeler spent most of the rest of the afternoon moving around the Common Room together, silent as they could be around one another. It was not uncomfortable, but it was slightly charged... Just enough to keep Phillip from retreating completely into his own mind. Both had a massive amount of work to do, and if they did manage to finish all of their homework and Head duties, there were Quidditch plays to attend to. As they sat at their desks, Phillip thought about how much he had to attend to. It should have been easy to focus.

But it wasn't, and it was the fault of the Ravenclaw who was currently sitting at the desk across from him with a mug of her disgustingly strong tea and a smudge of ink on her nose.

Everyone knew that Anne Wheeler was an exceptional player, and there countless passes that she had made that were incredible. Many people had seemed to think that these passes were too difficult to even be possible, and with good reason. Many involved her rolling her broom completely upside down to catch a pass, while she held on with only her legs. Phillip had never before understood how she could do such things, but he did now, and it mesmerized him. He had never seen anyone fly like that with a broom... It was as if Anne Wheeler had taken something that had been done one way for as long as it existed and made it her own.

His mind replayed what he had seen. Every movement was fluid and graceful, and she kept each inch of her body under control. He remembered the way that, even when she was holding on with her feet dangling in the air, they were perfectly pointed and held in graceful stance. His mind replayed her descent towards him, where she seemed to walk down invisible steps as she closed the distance between them like some sort of angel. Her soaked curls, which had framed her face like a halo, only added to the illusion of Wheeler as a seraph. As he tried to focus on Herbology, his mind instead returned to the Quidditch Pitch.

When it returned to the pair of them, rolling in the sand until he was above her, inches from full lips, he stopped it suddenly.

He did not know what he was thinking. He had only just gotten out of hot water with Wheeler, and they were still working through tension following the Quidditch Pitch. During the day, he spent time with his group of elites, listening to their gossip and rants and steering the conversation away from Wheeler whenever possible. Yes, they were partners now, but she had made it clear that there wasn't anything more.

Did he want there to be?

Wheeler went to bed before him, leaving Phillip alone to struggle through Potions. They were studying Amorentia, which meant that they soon would be making an attempt at creating the devilishly tricky potion, so he needed to understand it. When he finished that, he pulled out his wand in order to practice for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

They were supposed to be practicing the Patronus charm, something that was rumored to be able to earn them a massive amount of points on the exam if it was corporeal. Phillip had succeeded in producing his before, the year previous when it was mentioned that it would be necessary to know the spell for their exams. It had worked for him then, but he had not attempted the spell for several months now, and he knew it took extreme effort. He did not want to look like a complete novice in class, not when it was the Seventh Year and it was more important to be prepared than ever before.

Not when the things they were studying were becoming more and more necessary for survival.

Dementors were almost completely out of the control of the Ministry of Magic now, at the Dark Lord's prerogative. They prowled the streets of England and were slowly becoming less concentrated, drifting into Wales and beginning to float across the seas, stopping only to seize a wayward seaman's soul. This kept the Aurors occupied while the Dark Lord focused on what he wanted to. It was much harder to stop that attacks on Muggles when the entire force of wizard fighters was struggling to contain the creatures of darkness and devastation.

Phillip was safe, he tried to remind himself sometimes. But he wasn't really, because after this countless members of his class who had been the main instigators behind the attacks on Muggles would be joining the side of the Dark Lord. And he would be expected to join them.

Phillip swallowed hard as he clutched the handle of his wand in his palm, ignoring the thought.

Instead, he pointed the wand in front of him and murmured, _"Expecto Patronum."_ A spurt of silvery mist left his wand, but it went no more than an inch from the tip. When the mist settled around his hand it provided a cooling sensation that faded quickly, along with any of the light. Phillip furrowed his brow and raised his hand, saying it with more determination this time. _"Expecto Patronum!"_

He fed the spell his happiest memory steadily, as though he were feeding kindling to a fire. The memory involved his first night at Hogwarts, having the hat set onto his head and the whole room burst into cheers. He had been so terrified that it would send him anywhere else, that he would be in the same position that young Edison had without any way of explaining to his parents what had happened. The relief had been the most powerful thing that he had felt to that point in his life, and maybe since.

Silver left his wand again, forming a cloud of mist that would surely provide a slight layer of protection from a dementor so that someone else could take it down. But there was no hint of anything within the mist, not the form of any shape that would be capable of driving the creature off on its own. Phillip let out a groan of frustration through gritted teeth, and the cloud dissipated quickly.

"You're too calculated." Phillip stiffened, and when he turned, he found Wheeler standing on the stairs that led to their dormitory. She was wrapped in the blanket from her bed, which was a deep blue over what appeared to be a men's t-shirt and old flannel pajama pants. Wheeler's curly hair was pulled up into a ponytail, but it was a mess from sleep and little portions stuck out all over the place. Her eyes were sharp, but lines of sleep surrounded them, and her lips appeared slightly dry the way anyone's were when they woke up. She looked amazing.

What would she look like in one of his shirts, he found himself wondering?

Phillip shook his head quickly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, looking up at her with a raised eyebrow. "I've done it before, and I did it just like this."

"I remember, I was in your DADA class," she retorted, waking over to the kettle. She put water on, and he watched her move throughout the kitchen to fetch the tea he knew she liked for bed. Sometimes, when he woke, he knew she'd woken up in the night because the jar of lavender and chamomile tea was still out on the counter, because she had forgotten to put it away. He was keeping a mental note of the amount in the jar, and he had a bag of the stuff in his room shoved under the bed. When he was sure she would not catch him, he added a few inches more.

"I know you were, so you saw me," he countered. "I can produce a corporeal Patronus, and this is exactly how I did it."

"So can I, and maybe it worked for you before, but something's changed. Your corporeal was never animated enough anyway, it was stunted by your memory."

"My Patronus is not stunted!" he huffed.

"It's alright, Carlyle, men all over England struggle to put out," she said in a sarcastic voice that mimicked the smooth tones of a Healer. He shot her a look, and she looked satisfied with herself. "It never moved very far from you, and if it's going to chase off a dementor, it has to. It was never as bright as it could have been, either."

"Says who?'

"Fine, you want the blunt version?"

"I wasn't aware that you were capable of giving anything but the blunt version."

His quip produced a sleepy smile from Wheeler, but a smile nonetheless. He wished he could bottle it up, the smile that he had put on her lips. Still, when she spoke, it was with the same grit she always had. "It was never near as bright as mine."

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't understand..." he said slowly. "I've never seen you produce a Patronus, much less a corporeal one."

She shrugged. "Better just to do it for the examiners, have a trick to keep up my sleeve," she replied. "But the point is, your approach to the spell is wrong. It will give you the bare minimum results, but if you want to succeed past that, you have to change it."

"I don't get what you mean," he confessed. "I've been doing everything the way we were taught-"

"I'm not talking about something that can be taught," she said seriously. He stared blankly at her, and Wheeler let out a soft sigh. She fished her wand out of the massive pocket in the flannel pants, and his eyes widened. Was that why she clearly wore guys' pajamas, so she could have her wand on her while she slept? But then, Phillip remembered finding her curled up on the chair, her face streaming with tears and twisted in pain as she let out silent screams. Maybe it made sense.

Wheeler lifted the gleaming handle of her wand, which he noticed was carved in a manner that appeared to be by hand. If he looked very closely, he could see vines of roses curving up the wand's handle with leaves, thorns, and all. She levitated a piece of paper off of his desk, and the Seventh Year school supplies list drifted over to her. "Watch," she instructed. She moved the paper so that it was over the fire, and then, with a murmured spell, it began to shred itself at a rhythmic pace above the fire. The flames leaped a little to claim the paper, but past that, there was no drastic change.

"You aren't using a strong enough spell, which is why you're faltering. Because when you try to give it steady, calculated amounts of your happiness, it isn't going to work. You create a little bit and it falls flat."

"But if I give too much, won't I just exhaust myself?" he said slowly. He understood where she was going with the visual, but there were still points he needed to process.

"That's the point," she hummed. "Dementors... What do they do, Phillip?" Her tone was not derisive as she asked him a question they both knew he could answer.

"They feed on happiness," he said slowly. "They take it all, everything, and then leave a shell."

"Exactly," Wheeler said, and her voice sounded almost proud. "Which is why you have to give it to them without leaving a shell. Everything... An explosion of it, given freely. Because it isn't the lack of happiness that turns you into a shell, it's having it ripped away from you without properly letting go." She raised her wand again, and this time, a massive stack of papers from his desk flew into the fire. The flames roared in a shower of sparks, several of which landed dangerously close to the rug. "You need to completely let everything go if you want to generate the explosion of energy you need."

"That was the revisions to the student handbook I was making."

"But it was for magic." When he saw the mischievous look on her face, he started laughing, and then a truly strange thing started happening... She was laughing too, and they were both relaxed and at ease together in the slightly overheated room.

"Alright, then, Wheeler. Show me how it's done if you're such a pro," he challenged, leaning against one of the chairs.

"Challenge accepted," she retorted, lifting her wand. Wheeler took a deep breath and closed her eyes, and then she murmured, _"Expecto Patronum."_ He was surprised by the quiet take she had on the spell, but he came to the conclusion that she did not need shouted words or gestures of the hand.

Immediately, from the tip of her wand, thick strands of silver fog began to roll into a shape. Wings formed, and then a beak, and a proud chest and a pair of intense eyes. It was a buzzard, a proud one with a hooked beak that looked sharp enough to take out Phillip's eye as it soared through the room and left a trail of mist in its wake. He found himself mesmerized by the animal, watching as it circled up above the vaulted ceiling. The bird seemed to sense his gaze, and it turned its piercing gaze onto him. It was just like looking Wheeler in the eyes.

He turned to look at her, with the ghost of a laugh on her lips and satisfaction in her eyes, and then before he knew it he was lifting his wand and repeating the incantation. He did not feed it the memories of the relief of having met his parents' expectations, the feeling that had been mixed with the fear that he would be just like them.

He fed it her smile and their banter and the way her laughter made him feel, and he fed it the uncertainty he felt when he looked at her as he questioned every beat of his heart. He fed it the way she had looked, spiraling through the air like she was a breath of wind and then descending as though she had come from the heavens, in spite of her soaked clothing and wild curls.

From his wand, thick clouds of silver smoke began to flow freely, rolling into the massive shape of an animal- a bear, with massive, hulking shoulders and a lumbering gait as it began to prowl the common room, peering up at the buzzard above. The creature shocked him as it moved away from him, seeming to take on a mind of its own in a way it never had before. It glowed, bright enough to burn its silhouette into his gaze if he looked too long.

"See?" she hummed, turning to look at him with the hint of a smirk. "Now, just do that in DADA and Professor Barnum will be falling over herself to praise you."

Phillip looked at her for a moment, staring. His eyes were wide, and he did not know what to say. His lips did not seem capable of forming words. "I- Thanks, Wheeler," he finally managed to fumble. His tone caused her to raise an eyebrow.

"Merlin, you need to go to bed, Carlyle," she commented as she poured the hot water from the kettle into her mug, the same one she always used. "It's an exhausting spell, and your body heals when you sleep. Your ego will need it tonight to recover from such a brutal loss to me." She gave him a sweet smile as she picked up the mug and left the room, leaving him alone.

Phillip watched as the buzzard circled the bear, causing the creature to tilt its head and stare. The bird was fading, but Phillip watched its every move until it was gone. His own Patronus turned an expectant gaze on Phillip, and he blinked back at the creature, stunned. His previous Patronuses had been a mere shadow of this... The massive creature had come alive in a way that it never had before.

It had come alive with her, the same way Phillip was starting to wonder if he was.

Defense Against the Dark Arts had gone exactly the way that Wheeler had predicted, with Professor Barnum thrilled to no end by the creature that burst free of his wand. The N.E.W.T level class was smaller, a mix of students from all of the houses, so Wheeler was there as well. Across the room, she had tossed him a smirk that unsettled him because of the way it caused his heart to leap. Rowle and Rosier, who were also in the class, had sat at his side with massive sneers as other students attempted the incantation, as if his success somehow carried over to them. When Wheeler went, however, they could find no reason to sneer.

Her buzzard soared through the air for a few moments, seeming to enjoy being the object of awe for the moment. But then, it spotted the bear that Phillip had produced from the night before. The creature opened its beak and allowed a caw to escape as it flew to the familiar creature, and then it perched on the lumbering shoulders of Phillip's Patronus, which had yet to fade. His bear let out a bemused huff, but it made no move to brush off the creature. It was Phillip's turn to give Wheeler a smug grin, and she had quickly looked away from him.

The feeling of success carried over all throughout Phillip's morning, and into the lunch hours. He had not even minded, so much, listening to Fawley and Avery ramble on about some attack on a Muggle building in Cokeworth. He had the full feeling in his chest of knowing he had improved, that he had done well... But part of him wanted to explore why.

Why had Anne Wheeler's presence been the thing he reached for to fuel his Patronus charm? And more than that, why had it worked so well?


	7. The Fall

The next few weeks, schoolwork picked up for both Anne and Phillip to a ridiculous pace. They were seventh years, and so the two of them were often spending nights at their desks staying up until the early hours of the morning. Part of Anne did not mind, however. They were busy, but Anne was starting to get a handle on their jobs, and she could tell that Phillip was as well. By now they had memorized the names of all the First Years and knew who to check on when they went to meals, and both knew the Student Handbook like the backs of their hands.

Back in the Common Room, they seemed to have settled into a comfortable sort of domesticity. Anne did not know exactly how it had happened, but at some point over those weeks, Phillip Carlyle had carved himself a space in her life. There were days where they did not have any time to speak and days that they engaged in banter all morning in the Common Room, but whatever it was, it was comfortable. There was much to do for both of them; Carlyle and Anne had enough homework to drown in, as well as Quidditch teams to train and Head Boy and Girl responsibilities. Anne had started to pick up a Sunday shift at the Three Broomsticks to help out W.D., which took up more time. But the busy nature of their routine was alright with her.

However comfortable the two of them may have been together, however, there was a mounting tension growing in the school that lingered no matter how comfortable they were. The attacks were getting more and more frequent, and they were rising in gravity from simple vandalism and spellwork to injury and brutality. Headmaster Barnum announced the second week into school that there would be an earlier curfew, and that the punishment would be much graver if students were caught out of bed than ever before. On the nights that Anne and Carlyle helped with patrolling the school, they had yet to even see one person out of bed. They were the Heads of school, they knew exactly how much trouble the students of Hogwarts were capable of- and even the worst troublemakers among them did not brave the hallways at night, not when the darkness outside the windows reflected the darkness that was seeping into the wizarding world.

Every once in a while, though, the dark and stormy weather housed moments that lit a fire in Anne's chest, one that could keep her warm in spite of the chilled hatred that seemed to be surrounding them on all sides.

One of those moments came in the form of a morning Herbology class three weeks later. Anne and Carlyle were coming down from their dorms, with both of them having made the decision to skip breakfast in favor of a bit more sleep. The autumn weather had been stormy as of late, and today would be no exception. The clouds were a deep grey, almost black despite the fact that it was morning. The wind carried a hint of the coming rain on its wings, and Carlyle glanced up as they left the front doors of the castle.

"It's going to rain again," he mumbled distastefully, taking a bite out of one of the biscuits Anne had brought up from the Great Hall the night before.

"What? No," she retorted, her voice exaggerated in its sarcasm. "I had no idea. Nothing could have prepared me for this life-altering information, especially not the fact that it's rained every day for the past week-"

Thunder clapped across the sky, and the sky seemed to split open as it poured with rain. It fell down in thick sheets, soaking into the already muddy paths and completely soaking Anne's hair and robes. Carlyle drew in a sharp breath as the icy water soaked into his clothing, calling, "How far are we from the greenhouse?" Neither could see more than a few feet in front of them.

"We've still got the whole rest of the path," Anne called back, turning a worried gaze to her bag. She did not want to have to dry everything off, not when her books had been the focus of so many mending spells already. "Run!"

The Head Girl threw her arms up over her head, sprinting down the muddy path. The slippery earth tossed the mud back onto her legs, but Anne tried not to think about its slimy texture on her socks as she picked her way down the slippery path. In the distance, she could see the greenhouse. It was yards away, and those yards seemed like miles as she ran with Carlyle behind her.

Anne only stopped when she heard a thud and a slight grunt, the sound of a body hitting the ground. "Carlyle?" she cried out, turning to look down. Her eyes found him sprawled out in the mud, and for a moment she panicked. "Carlyle! Are you alright?"

He was clearly muttering under his breath as he lifted his head to look up at her. "Tripped," he mumbled, struggling to sit up. Anne could not keep a peal of laughter from bursting from her lips, despite the fact that they were both drenched. The entire left side of Carlye's face was smeared with mud, and it continued all down his body. He shot her a look but did not seem all that upset. "Enjoying the view, Wheeler?" he hummed sarcastically, gesturing to his mud-covered front. It did plaster his robes to his body, and Anne could see a hint of the muscle that she had seen that night all those weeks ago when they had shared the bathroom.

Her face heated up slightly, but her smirk did not disappear. "No, I'm just enjoying the sight of you as a brunette." Carlyle rose his hand to his hair and swore softly when he realized that it was indeed muddy. Anne's laughter only intensified, and as he watched her, she could see his own smile forming. However, there was mischief in his.

"Say, Wheeler, fancy a hug?" he asked her innocently, and Anne stopped laughing. "No, I-"

Before she could respond, Carlye had reached out and was tugging on her ankle. A yelp left her lips as she lost her balance, and before she knew it she was landing beside him in a muddy heap. Anne landed on her back, and she felt the slimy substance squish its way through her curls, sliding down the back of her neck like slimy fingers. Anne sat up, glaring at the laughing Slytherin.

"You prat!" she decided, combing through her hair with fingers that came away filthy. "How in the name of Merlin am I supposed to get this out before class?"

"You can skip the first five minutes, like Stratton would care," scoffed Carlyle, his eyes sparkling. "You're brilliant."

"Says the one who somehow managed to free himself from the Venomous Tentacula in under a minute."

"You do realize that you're complimenting me, right?"

"Oh, no. Thanks for pointing that out, I wouldn't want to be doing that. I do have a reputation to maintain."

They were soaked in rain and the mud, sitting and laughing on the ground as their books were soaked. For a moment, Anne did not care about any of those things. He was leaning over with a handful of mud and smearing it across her cheek playfully, and in return, she had lobbed a massive glob into his hair. They were sprawled there like children, and Anne was at ease for the first time in a while. Then Carlyle caught a glimpse of the face of his watch, and his eyes widened. "Merlin."

Anne peered at the watch and she swore softly. "We're going to have to go like this and clean up when we get there," she told him, standing and reaching out a hand to help him up. He took it, grabbing his bag so that they could move along the path.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled as he looked down at his mud-smeared robes. "We're going to look ridiculous."

"Not me," Anne joked, tossing her head. "I look like such a heartbreaker." Her muddy hair was dripping down her back and her face was smeared with brown as she arched a playful eyebrow at him.

He looked up to her, and his gaze softened. "Yeah, you do," he said, but he did not return her sarcasm. There was warmth in his voice instead, and Anne felt her cheeks burn beneath the mud. She took a deep breath and looked up at him, and her eyes locked on his for a moment. He made her forget, just for moments at a time, that the wizarding world was fighting a war that was bubbling under the surface.

The baby blue eyes that met her own were the kind that she could get lost in, but Anne didn't want to get lost in anyone. She had too much to lose, especially from a Pureblood who came from a pair of Death Eater parents. Would he become one, too, she wondered? Her heart panged at the thought of the face before her growing gaunt and pale, of those baby blue eyes becoming sunken from the amount of deaths they had seen.

No.

Anne turned quickly, glancing up at the greenhouse. "We're here," she said softly, and then she had pulled the door open, leaving him to open it himself. There were shocked whispers as Anne slipped into the back and began to work on vanishing the mud from her things and her clothing. The door opened again, revealing a filthy Phillip Carlyle, and the murmurs only intensified. Anne ignored his hasty excuse about slipping over a root in the path, trying not to listen as he spoke to the friends who already had Dark Marks on their arms.

* * *

The next day, Anne could barely contain the excitement writing in her stomach as she sat with her Quidditch team. Their first two games had gone wonderfully, mostly because Anne had them practicing once a day on weekdays and twice on the weekends.

It had taken some getting used to. Coleman and Acuna had some trouble clicking as Chasers, partially because Acuna continued to flirt with Coleman between passes. This caused the startled blonde to drop the Quaffle, and Anne had to summon it back up to them. This was only a problem for a few days, however, because Anne had quite literally told Acuna that he did not get to shoot his shot with Coleman until he could actually make them on the Quidditch Pitch. His accuracy improved miraculously after that comment, and there were few other issues with her two Chasers.

Anne was fairly sure that she could count on her fingers the number of goals Swenson allowed past him throughout their weeks of rehearsals, and she made sure to let him know that she knew this. The Keeper seemed to float whenever she complimented him, tossing her a smile with his remarkably straight teeth before catching the next one. Nichols and Spinghel meshed surprisingly well together, and Anne left several practices with lumps from them that she knew would take someone off a broom easily. Sparks's knack for finding the Snitch was incredible, and the Quidditch Captain's only remark for him was to time it right, and if he saw it beforehand, to track it and capture it at a moment that would secure them their win.

As the team walked out onto the field in their deep blue robes, Anne's eyes shone. She felt best in these robes of deep blue. They actually fit her for one thing, since the school provided them new every year. Her house colors of bronze and blue instilled a pride in Anne that she knew would never fade, not even when she was out of Hogwarts and flying professionally. The Ravenclaw team would always be the object of her pride.

The stands roared as Anne and her team met the green-clad players in the center of the pitch. It was only then that Anne turned from Sparks, who stood beside her. She always made sure the young student had somewhere to stand where he would be comfortable, safe with the other members of the team. Anne knew she was expected to shake hands with the captain of the Slytherin team, Carlyle. She turned to face him with lively eyes, and he grinned at her as he extended a hand. His little, signature smirk was back, and she felt her heart skip a beat. He looked good, in his Quidditch robes... Anne scolded herself and stepped up, reaching out with her hand.

"Ready to lose, Wheeler?" Carlyle hummed as they shook. Anne was not sure if she was imagining it, but she thought that he held onto the shake a moment longer than necessary.

It was her turn to look up at Carlyle with a little grin of her own.

"Never."

The whistle blew, and they all took off. The Slytherins had possession of the Quaffle, and Anne, Acuna, and Coleman went whizzing between the players.

Coleman intercepted a Slytherin pass with nimble fingers before releasing it to soar over their heads, where it was nimbly captured by Acuna. He tossed Coleman a wink before shooting down to the other end of the pitch. The Chasers had all been on the Ravenclaw end, so their path towards the Slytherin goalposts was largely unhindered. Acuna passed the Quaffle with calculated precision to Anne, who had a Slytherin player on either side of her. At the last second, when they moved to make a grab for her, Anne shot directly upwards. The two Slytherins crashed into one another, and the crowd gasped.

Anne was prepared to make the shot when suddenly a Bludger whizzed in her direction. Anne was forced to dart to the sides, straight into the hands of a Slytherin Chaser who caught the Quaffle and made off with it. She shot a dirty look in the direction of the Beater, only to have it returned by Carlyle with a flirty wink that was all too reminiscent of Acuna. She simply made a face in response and shot down to the other end of the pitch.

The Slytherins had scored, but not a moment after that had happened Acuna took possession of the Quaffle. The Fourth Year shot down the pitch and took spectacular aim, passing to Anne. The two passed the ball back and forth several times, on exactly the same wavelength. Soon, Anne outstripped him and made the throw into the goal, straight through the legs of the Keeper. The Ravenclaw side of the stands burst into cheers, and when the Slytherins took possession of the Quaffle, the Ravenclaw team moved to pursue them.

It was then that Anne's broom screeched to a dead halt in the center of the pitch, sixty feet into the air.

Anne nearly flew off from sheer momentum alone, but she managed to stay on the broom by snapping her legs together and gripping it until her knuckles turned red. There was noise from the stands as Anne tried to nudge her broom forward. The usually responsive broom was frozen, and it would not move an inch. Anne frowned, trying to reach for her wand from her pocket.

The broom began to jerk immediately, yanking her a bit forwards, and then upwards, and then down with massive force. A cry of shock left Anne's lips as she held tight. The broom was making an attempt to roll itself, and Anne did not resist. Instead, she clung to it, allowing it to turn her upside down. Several of the teachers were scanning the stands with panicked faces, and a couple had made their way onto the pitch and were attempting to cast enchantments. A few of the Slytherin players had possession of the ball and were scoring repeatedly, but the Ravenclaw team surrounded Anne. Their brooms were a few yards away, but they could not get close for fear of being knocked off themselves.

"No, get back, Sparks!" Anne ordered as the spindly second year tensed to propel his broom forward. "I don't want you getting hurt."

"That's kind of our concern for you," Swenson fired back, and the broadly build Keeper looked at her with determination in his eyes. "I can-"

"Wheeler!"

Anne looked up, and her eyes met Carlyle's blue ones. She rolled her eyes, gritting her teeth as she broom began to jerk her forward again. "If you're here to remind me how many points you have now, I'm a little bit preoccupied-" she began, but Carlyle cut her off. The others were hovering around her, but he moved underneath, sliding forward on his broom.

"Do what you did at tryouts, with your legs," he called to her. Her eyes widened, and the Ravenclaw team exchanged confused glances.

"Are you crazy?" Anne hissed as the broom began to roll again.

"No, but you are, and if you do it, I can take your hands and catch you, pull you onto the broom with me," he retorted. His blue eyes held determination, but there was something else in them that she had not expected to see- fear. Anne knew she could not hold on much longer, her hands were already beginning to slip from the handle.

"I'll pull you off," she said, worried.

"I can hold on. The worst you'll do is give me a few bruises," he called in reply. "Come on, Wheeler, before you don't have the choice over whether or not to fall."

"I can't do it in my robes!" she called back. "Help me, I can't reach my wand."

Phillip swore and fumbled in the pocket of his robes for his wand. When he produced it, he aimed for her robes and shouted a spell. The robes tore neatly down the back, falling freely until they spiraled to the sandy ground below. Anne was left in a white camisole and a pair of leggings, which was perfect.

The broom bucked even more viciously as Anne struggled to swing one leg over. The crowd seemed to be holding their breath as she managed to swing her left leg to join her right, and then she took a breath and fell backward. There were screams as she did so, but then the crowd seemed to realize that she was gripping her broom with her legs. Shouts filled the air as she extended her hands down to Carlyle, and he took them, shifting so that he could pull her a bit closer. Her broom came with her, however, and it was bucking dangerously. She heard gasps from her teammates as he took her hands, holding them fast.

Carlyle looked into her eyes, and for a moment those pools of blue seemed to be washing over her. "Let go," he said softly.

She did.

Anne freefell, and Carlye used her momentum to guide her onto his broom. It was a sharp, awkward landing, and the broom fell several feet in the air due to the sudden addition of new weight. There was no room for her to leave space between them, so Anne gripped his upper arm to keep herself on the broom. When she finally managed to adjust, she was forced to wrap her arms around his waist. The broom that had been bucking so viciously was close, terribly close. Anne shoved it away, calling, "Go!"

Carlyle winced as he placed his wrists back on the broom handle and shot forward. "Did you hurt yourself?" she called.

"It's just a sprain," he called back as he flew her towards the ground. "It will be easy to fix."

Anne was silent for a moment as they came to the ground, where several teachers were waiting to meet them. "I'm sorry," she finally said before they landed.

"It isn't your-"

Immediately, the teachers were buzzing around them, asking about injuries. Anne was fine, but Professor Barnum immediately began to murmur an incantation to heal Phillip's sprained wrist. The Quidditch team landed behind them, and almost immediately they were by Anne's side.

"What was that?" Acuna demanded. "Did it just start happening, or did someone shoot a hex at you? We didn't see anything."

"That was amazing," Nichols praised, referring to the drop that had just happened. "How did you-"

"Are you okay?" Swenson interrupted, his voice quieter.

Anne looked between them, nodding slowly. "Yeah... Yeah, I am. But Carlyle sprained his wrist," she informed them, gesturing to the Slytherin captain who was being tended to. "I think we owe him a thank you."

Sparks led the way to approach Carlyle, who was being lectured by Professor Barnum about heroics and taking unnecessary risks. Anne smiled slightly over Sparks's head at him, raising an eyebrow. _Thank you,_ she mouthed, and he nodded in return as he was me with one hundred pounds of jabbering Second Year.


	8. Chapter 8

The following day, the whole school was abuzz about the events of the previous day's Quidditch game from the newest First Year to Phillip's Seventh Year friends.

Everyone had a different take on the events, and none was free from bias. Most members of the Ravenclaw Team and House seemed to sympathize with Wheeler, which he did not find incredibly unreasonable. After all, the Head Girl had been fighting for her life to stay atop a hexed broom, hung from it by her knees, and then free-fallen through the air onto another's broom. Part of Phillip was pleased that Wheeler was getting the attention she deserved for her skills on her broom, ones that she had not been able to showcase before. Wheeler seemed slightly uncomfortable with all of the attention, but Phillip still could see hidden smiles on her lips after younger students asked her about what had happened. Other students, however, suggested that the stunt had been faked because Ravenclaw knew they were going to lose. Afer all, they seemed to whisper, if she had not revealed those skills to them before, what else could Anne Wheeler be hiding?

Upon investigating the broom, it had been clear that the object was tampered with. Professor Barnum came to tell them while Wheeler was out drilling her team from the ground for their make-up game that next Saturday, but instead of finding Wheeler she found an exhausted Slytherin struggling through the Potions homework. He looked up as the DADA instructor entered the room with a somber expression on her face.

"Ah, Mr. Carlyle," the blonde woman had greeted him with a weary smile on her face. "Where would I be able to find Miss Wheeler?"

"Out on the Pitch," Phillip responded, setting down his quill. "Wait, Professor. Did you find out about the broom, what caused it?"

The blonde offered him a gentle smile, but there was a sadness in it. "The internal spellwork that helps it to function has been tampered with," she responded. "We aren't able to fix it... If Ms. Wheeler hopes to continue playing Quidditch, she will need to purchase a new one or use a school broom. I need to find her and inform her, thank you for your time."

Phillip felt his heart sink. Wheeler had been working over the weekends with her brother, and he knew it was just so they could keep rent and school expenses paid. There was no way that she would be able to afford a broom. As Professor Barnum turned, he called, "Wait." She paused and glanced back at him curiously.

Phillip opened a drawer in his desk and grabbed at a coin purse. "How much would it cost to buy a broom of the same model?" Professor Barnum blinked, and before she could respond, he had given her the purse. "I think there should be enough in here."

Carefully, the professor looked down. Her eyes widened as she saw the sheer amount in the bag, and when she looked up at him, there was a knowing smile on her lips. "Yes, I think you are right," she responded with sparkling eyes. "Would you like me to take the liberty of ordering another, Mr. Carlyle?"

He felt himself grow slightly uncomfortable under her gaze of understanding. "Yes, please," he said quickly. "But... But if you could tell Miss Wheeler that it was covered by the warranty on that particular model, I would greatly appreciate it."

The blonde professor tucked the bag of money into the pocket of her robes, and she shook her head slightly as she gave him a gentle grin. "Ms. Wheeler is lucky to have you."

"Well, I mean- I would do anything, you know, for friends," he struggled to recover. His cheeks were slightly warm as he ran a hand through his slicked-back hair.

This caused the Professor's smile to fade slightly. "A noble sentiment, but I hope that is not the case," she murmured seriously, looking at him with calm, cool eyes. "Too many students lately have been making the wrong decisions on behalf of their friends. What you said to me is a brave thing, but it also places responsibility on people such as yourself, Mr. Carlyle. In times like these, choosing your loyalties is more important than anything you will face."

Professor Barnum turned on her heel and left him alone. Her words rang in his head, and he tried not to think about how true they were... And how dangerous the line he walked was because of them.

Phillip had hoped that he would be able to stop thinking about Barnum's words, but the very next morning at breakfast, he found himself staring them in the face.

"-Wasn't even that impressive, I mean, did you see it?" scoffed Cassia from across the table. The Slytherin Seeker shot a glare across the hall as she raised her pumpkin juice to her pouty lips. "Honestly. Is she here to play Quidditch, or to join the bloody circus? I had just spotted the Snitch, and if that hadn't happened, we would have won!"

"She probably exaggerated it. You know how they've been lately, blowing things out of proportion," commented Rowle between the mouthful of sausage he was chomping on. "Why did you?" Avery demanded, raising an eyebrow at him over a hooked nose. "It wouldn't have been that hard. All that you would have had to do was stay back, and she would have fallen. One less Mudblood at this school, and then your competition is gone, for the rest of the season."

All eyes were on Phillip now, and he forced himself to look up with a composed face. Under the table, his hands were balled into fists. Hearing them call her that made his blood roar in his ears, and Phillip couldn't afford to get upset. A display like that would reach his parents before he could do anything about it, and that could be extremely dangerous. Wheeler would understand, wouldn't she? Besides... These people had been his friends for a long time. "I couldn't let her fall," he said with a shrug. "I mean, think about it. It would have looked bad for us if she'd fallen in front of the whole school, and in a game with us. The investigation could have found something that stopped us playing Quidditch, or worse. The hex itself got the message across, I think. There wasn't any need for anything else."

He kept his tone haughty, lifting his chin as hed loaded bacon onto his breakfast plate. He could not tell, exactly, who had cast the spell... They seemed to have kept him out of the loop on it, and that disturbed him ever so slightly. Perhaps he did not normally participate in the hexing and jinxing they did, but most of the time he was at least aware of it, whether it was slightly before or after the fact. Maybe it was his duties as Head Boy that was distancing him from them, or maybe they were sensing the hesitance he was beginning to feel regarding his future after Hogwarts.

Whatever it was, it made him feel like he was suspended halfway between normalcy and something dark and throbbing that kept him staring over his shoulder.

Seeming satisfied with the explanation, Cassia cast him a sweet smile. "Well, don't you worry," she promised with a flirty wink. "I'll win us the next game, no matter what Wheeler does."

"It's a shame, really," commented Fawley. The tall, broad boy refilled his goblet with juice, casting a glance over at where Wheeler sat with a raised eyebrow. "She's not bad-looking, for a Mudblood."

Phillip's hands were shaking as he shoved them into his pockets.

"No, not with that little body," agreed Rosier with a smirk from a way down the table. "And you saw it, yesterday when the robes came off. And athletic, too. Imagine, if she can do that while riding a broomstick, what she could do while riding-"

"Honestly," Cassia scoffed, cutting off the jeering boys. "She's not that attractive."

"Mm," Avery sneered, glancing over at Wheeler. His gaze lingered places that Phillip did not like and he clutched his wand close. "Well, let's just say that I wouldn't mind cutting those robes off of her myself. Good job, Carlyle." Their gazes turned to him, and he had to fight for nonchalance as he rolled his eyes.

"Whatever," he replied, tilting his chin up. "You know what the Dark Lord says about tainted blood." The words hurt in his throat, and they were as much for himself as they were for the others. Wheeler was a danger to him, and he was a danger to her... So why had he frequently found himself smiling when he walked past the lilac bushes on the grounds?

"Exactly," Cassia agreed, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. Her own eyes were filled with a ruthlessness, an edge that genuinely frightened Phillip, not for himself, but for Anne. He cast the Ravenclaw Chaser a look, and his eyes found the back of her curly bun. She was sitting by Swenson, and they were laughing... Surely not talking about darkness, about terror, about the horrible fate that she supposedly deserved.

The conversation moved on, but Phillip's mind did not leave the way that he had felt with Avery's eyes crawling over her, speaking about her body as if it were a slab of meat rather than the property of the girl that refused to leave his mind.

* * *

"I'll give you three mornings of tea made for you."

"I can make my own tea, Carlyle, it takes me two minutes. You need to work on finding a better bartering chip."

"But you said we can't use money!"

"And since then, it's become increasingly clear exactly how much you rely upon it," she retorted, shooting Phillip a playful grin. The smile made his heart flop, and he found it was hard to be annoyed when she had it fixed upon him.

The pair of them had been making a bet as they walked down to the Great Hall for breakfast. It concerned the make-up Quidditch game that would be taking place the next afternoon between their two teams: whoever was on the winning side would be owed a massive favor by the loser, whatever that may have been.

"Well, maybe there isn't any point in me making up a prize for you anyway since my team is going to win," he fired back.

Wheeler scoffed, and he grinned back over at her. "Please. Have you seen my team? Swenson hasn't let a goal past him in a week, Sparks's average time catching the Snitch is eight-point-five minutes, and I had to go to the Hospital Wing after Nichols got me with a Bludger yesterday."

"She got you with a Bludger? But you haven't been taken down by one since Fourth Year!" he exclaimed. His eyes were wide and incredulous.

"Yes, and this one knocked me into a ten-foot-drop," Wheeler announced, oddly proud for someone who was talking about being knocked off of her broom. "We are going to win, and you are going to owe me."

"And what exactly will I owe you, Wheeler?" Phillip questioned, shooting her a lopsided smirk. "Because if you want a piece of this, my body isn't on the table-"

Wheeler wrinkled her nose, and he burst out laughing. "I'll pass," she informed him, and he grinned down at her.

"Your loss, especially since you had a sneak peek-"

"Shut up, Carlyle."

"Oh, c'mon, I know you looked that night when we were sharing the tub."

"I didn't, because I did not want to scar my vision with your hideousness," she answered primly. Her cheeks were awfully red for someone sticking her nose up in the air.

"Really," he drawled, moving his arms back to begin to unbutton his robes. "Well, you can't fly if your eyes are scarred, so in that case be my guest."

He received an elbow to the side that landed with a thud, and for a moment he struggled to catch his breath. When he did, they were both grinning, and Wheeler was fighting to contain laughter. "You deserved that."

"Yeah, alright, I'll admit it," he joked back, and for a moment he just enjoyed her smile. His own smile faded as they walked down the corridor that would lead him to the Great Hall.

Muggle-born students and teachers alike had been facing massive amounts of tension lately. Professor Lutz had barely had a Slytherin class with more than two students the Thursday before, which had led to a lecture for Phillip's entire house. Stratton had been receiving such an intense amount of disrespect from so many students that Phillip was surprised that no one was in the Hospital Wing with a Shrivelfig shoved down their throat, and even Pureblooded Professor Barnum was being called things by her students that Phillip could not repeat, due to her Blood-Traitor status.

The Great Hall had been a massive site for the harassment. Muggle-born students were tripped and glared at, as well as whispered about as they passed. Phillip had caught Anne repairing multiple tears and burned patches in her robes, which were already growing more faded by the day, prior to her meals. It was a strange phenomenon, however, that the more it happened to her the less inclined she was to take meals in their Common Room instead. They had been entering the Gret Hall for breakfast together for the past couple days, and he had noticed that this only seemed to intensify the harassment.

Part of him was ashamed because he did not want to enter the Great Hall by her side anymore.

It was nothing to do with Wheeler and everything to do with everyone else. He was worried that his presence by her side was drawing more attention, even if they were the Heads of School. But past that, he knew his friends had been noticing. They had been far less inclined to keep him in the loop on things anyway, and he knew that if they saw him with her, it would get back to his parents. There would be hell to pay if he returned home with them informed of this, but it would be worse if...

He did not want to think about the news reaching the Dark Lord, who had eyes and ears everywhere.

It was for this reason Phillip had a nagging feeling in his chest, and he found himself giving in to it. Phillip moved to the side of the hall and knelt, moving his robes as though to expose his shoe. Wheeler came with him, and for a moment her smile faded. The change in her face was so quick that Phillip thought he might have imagined it. "What are you doing?" she asked, glancing about to make sure no one would run into him.

Another pang of guilt rattled in his chest, which was a feeling that was becoming far too familiar.

"My bloody laces are untied," he replied, glancing up at her. "I need to fix it, or we both know I'll trip." She let out a little scoff, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Go on without me."

Wheeler hesitated, but then she nodded. "Right. Well, then, I'll see you in class," she replied slowly, and then she turned and entered the hall without him.

Phillip lingered for a moment to run a hand through his hair and straighten his robes, and when enough time had passed, he too entered the Hall alone. Phillip was sure not to look in the direction of the Ravenclaw table. Instead, his eyes found Darya, who was currently peering over Avery's shoulder to read the contents of that day's edition of The Daily Prophet. The front was a tableau of suffering, of Muggle storefronts broken and burning and charred bodies. Rowle and Fawley sat across from the two, shoving their faces, and it was with them that Phillip sat.

"Morning," he greeted them as he slid into his spot, reaching for a bowl to fill with cereal.

Darya glanced up at him and sent him a sultry smile. "'Morning,' yourself," she greeted before turning back to the Prophet. "Good to see you without that bore on your arm this morning."

Phillip knew she was referring to Wheeler. He clenched the milk pitcher a bit harder than he had to, but there was really only one thing he could say, both for his own safety and hers. "It's good to be free of her," he hummed as he poured milk into his bowl. "Honestly, being Head Boy has been such a hassle lately. It takes away from time with all of you, and I'm missing everything important."

Rosier glanced up, nodding as he shoved a piece of toast into his mouth. "You couldn' be more righ', mate," he agreed through the food. "You haven' been here for anyfin' since-" Phillip had stopped a few syllables into Rosier's rant when his eyes locked on the figure over Avery's shoulder, his own eyes meeting the narrowed brown, gold-speckled eyes that were the perfect mirror of their buzzard Patronus. Wheeler turned on her heel and began to leave the Hall, and he felt his heart drop.

Phillip glanced over at Avery and Darya, who were both speaking gleefully as they read the paper, and Rosier didn't have enough brains to understand why he was leaving if he just stood up. Phillip could make up some excuse, say that it was-

"Mr. Carlyle," came a voice from behind him. A hand pressed to his shoulder, and Phillip stiffened. When he turned, his eyes found the face of Professor Barnum. Avery quickly folded the paper so that the corpses and the flames were obscured by an ad for Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. "Can we speak for a moment?"

"Um, actually," Phillip began as he rose from the table, turning to face the direction of the receding curly ponytail. "I need to talk to Wheeler about-"

"Excellent, this involves her as well," Barnum interrupted with pleasure. With that, the Headmaster clapped his hand over Phillip's shoulder and practically dragged him to follow Wheeler's receding form. "Ms. Wheeler!" She turned to face Barnum's voice, but when she saw Phillip her gaze became distant. She did not look in his direction as she moved to approach the Headmaster. "I have something to talk about concerning the both of you, if you'll follow me." He brushed past the pair of them, and suddenly Phillip and Anne were stuck walking side by side.

Phillip struggled to catch up to her, but as soon as she realized this Wheeler began to walk faster. As they left the Hall, it became a fight to see who could go faster without running into Headmaster Barnum. At this point, Phillip was convinced that Barnum knew exactly what was going on behind him and was choosing to ignore it. As soon as the doors to the Hall closed, Barnum stopped fast and turned to face them. Wheeler stumbled straight into his chest, which might have caused him to laugh if they had been on the same terms they were before entering the Hall.

Phillip thought about how he would not mind having her against his chest, and then suddenly all traces of laughter were gone.

"Alright," Barnum sighed as he moved the Head Girl aside in one movement. She blinked at him as though in a daze. "I assume you both are familiar with the Seventh Year Dance?"

Phillip was, of course. It happened every year in the middle of the school year, and it was an event that was attended in suits and gowns rather than dress robes. The dances were steamy and romantic and glamorous, according to Darya, who had been invited since Fourth Year, and Cassia who had attended since her Third. Phillip had been invited several times but had turned down the invitations.

"Yes," Wheeler replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, then you certainly know that one part of your responsibilities as Heads of School is to plan it," Barnum announced joyfully. "You will have the final say in everything from the theme to any decisions made on decor, food, and activities. The Prefects and any members of the staff are at your disposal. As it is October, and you must have all of the vital planning done by the beginning of November, I figured it was time to inform you. Feel free to ask me or Professor Barnum about anything you like concerning the dance- Actually, ask my wife. Last time I was asked to help set up a school event, I slept on the couch for a month at her insistence." With that ominous sentence, Barnum turned around and left the pair of them sitting there in a daze.

Phillip blinked, and he turned to face Wheeler. His mouth was open to speak, but before he could, she had insisted, "I don't want to hear it."

He winced, running a hand through his hair. "Wheeler, I-"

"I really don't Carlyle. You don't have to say anything, especially after you said exactly what you should have." Her brown eyes were distant and cold, and her voice reminded him of the steely blade of a dagger as it cut into his heart.

"What?"

He could see every streak of gold in her eyes as she stared at him, like loose threads in a tapestry in the way they jumped out at him. "If you didn't mean what you said you should have," she declared in a quiet but authoritative voice. "I'm not like you, or Cassia or Darya. I don't have a mansion, I have a flat with my brother in Hogsmeade above the bar where we both work. I don't have a family name that has meant something for hundreds of years. We're called 'wheeler' because of the business for crafting wheels that stayed in my family for six generations. I'm not some exotic beauty, and I don't have the whole school falling at my feet. You should mean what you said to them."

Her words felt like someone was slicing his chest open slowly. "Wheeler, no," he said quietly. His voice was soft and submissive.

"There isn't room in this world for a friendship between us," she whispered, stepping closer to him. He could smell lilac and wand polish now that she was standing so close, and it took all of his self-restraint not to brush a lock of brown hair from her eyes. "Being seen together could get you killed the way that I likely will be before this war is over." A gasp escaped his lips, and he looked down at her with aching eyes. "Don't tell me I'm wrong or I'm being dramatic because your friends were laughing about the slaughter of a pair of Muggle children and their Muggle-born mother, as well as everyone else on their street. It's dangerous for you, and it could get me attacked. So you said the right thing. Now we've just got to start living it."

"But we're partners," he murmured, his voice hopeful and firm. "We have to work together."

"You've gone through that whole bloody handbook more times than I have, and we both know that it doesn't say anything about us needing to be friends," she replied quietly. "We don't have to be anything... We can't be anything."

"But I don't- Wheeler, what about everything else?" he asked quietly. "What about the bet, or practicing Charms together tonight?"

"I can't tonight," she replied, and she looked away from him. At first he wanted her to look back, but then she said, "I'm going out with Swenson. He asked me out on a study date and I said yes."

That hurt much more than it should have, and it was the final blow. He blinked several times, processing... Swenson. The attractive Ravenclaw Keeper whose eyes followed Anne everywhere, the way he wished his could. The one who had the privilege to admire her up close rather than afar through stolen glances.

Someone who could treat her the way she deserved.

"Right," he whispered. "I'll just... I'll ask someone else for help."

"I'm sorry, Carlyle," she murmured, and she did not look up at him. "This is just the way things have to be."

There was a silence between them for a moment, and Phillip did not think it was a silence that they could ever close. And then he was walking away... Away from Wheeler, away from the Great Hall, away from everything.


	9. Chapter 9

The Three Broomsticks was filled with customers the same way that it always was, the way that filled the tavern with the warm and homey atmosphere that made sure people kept coming back. The two Wheeler siblings were behind the counter, and as W.D. poured shots of Firewhiskey for a rowdy group in the back, he appeared to be listening to his sister intently.

When she took a moment to breathe, he took the chance to ask a question. "And what do you plan on doing, now that you've said this?" W.D. queried. His voice was soothing to Anne, mostly because her brother had never been the type to ask her loaded questions, only the kind of man who encouraged her to answer what she could without fear of judgment.

Anne paused in her task of wiping down the bar to levitate the shots over to the table. When the men saw them coming, a rousing cheer filled the room. ""I... " Anne began, hesitating. "I plan on honoring what I said. The both of us can continue to interact, but only in a professional capacity."

W.D. let out a careful nod, and his face gave nothing away as he turned to face his little sister. If Anne had a poker face then W.D. was a stone wall. "I know you trust me with your secrets," he said quietly, "which is why I want to trust you with mine. There's something I want to tell you, Annie." His eyes searched her face, and as he did the same she felt a pang. The grave tone of his voice caused her heart to race. Was something wrong? "Have you heard of the Order of the Phoenix?"

The name rattled around in her mind, but Anne could not find a matching meaning for it. "No," she answered carefully. "What is it?"

W.D. began to work on closing the pub's windows as the sun went down by using a nonverbal spell. Each one closed with a little 'thwack' to keep the cool breeze from penetrating too far into the Broomsticks.

"The Order," he began in a cautious murmur, "is a group founded to fight. Think of them as the parallel of the Death Eaters, but or the other side." Anne watched W.D.'s face in hopes of observing every inch. Though his voice was somber, his eyes held a burning passion that Anne had only ever seen in him when he was talking about Quidditch or Runes.

"I wasn't even aware that there was another side," she replied. The pub was so full that their voices were easily lost in the chatter, and Anne did not think that they would be overheard. "I thought it was just You-Know-Who against the wizarding governments."

"And that is what they want you to think," W.D. agreed, "how he wants you to think." A grim smile graced his lips as he continued. "But Barnum started the Order-"

"Headmaster Barnum?" Anne interrupted with incredulity in her eyes.

W.D. seemed thoroughly unphased by the question. That was how it had always been growing up- Anne asked questions, and W.D. did the best he could to present the world to his sister in a logical, impartial way so that she could explore it herself to form opinions.

"No, Charity Barnum," W.D. replied. "Phineas is a member of the Order, and his illusions are excellent for causing confusion among enemies on the battlefield. But Charity's knack for nonverbal spellwork and quick aim make her possibly the fiercest duellist of our time, not to mention her talent for extremely potent, complicated defensive charms. She also knows how to keep morale among the Order high without undermining the gravity of our situation, and she is excellent at distributing resources. There is a reason that she is the Head of Slytherin."

Anne knew of Barnum's reputation as a skilled duellist, but she was shocked. Anne had assumed that the exhaustion in Professor Barnum's eyes had come from teaching duties. Now that she knew the blonde instructor was quite literally leading a rebellion, her respect for Barnum increased.

"Of course... That makes a lot of sense," Anne admitted, trying to hide the breathlessness of her voice. "But why are you telling me about this secret organization now?"

W.D. closed his eyes in an attempt to calm down, taking in a deep breath. "Because I joined."

For a moment, all was silent between the both of them. W.D. knew that Anne's mind was racing, and they both knew that when this happened, she needed time to compose her thoughts. When she finally spoke, she asked, "What does that entail for you?"

W.D. took her hands in his and moved her for a moment to stand behind the shelves of bottles. Anne tightened her crip, and before she knew it, she was holding him like she would fall if she let go.

"I mostly do intelligence work," W.D. answered as he gently rubbed circles into her palms. "I keep an eye and a running record on all travel in and out of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, and I do my best to investigate anything suspicious. I also monitor all clandestine meetings that take place here and report the discussions and their content back to the Order."

"You-Know-Who's operatives meet in the Broomsticks?" Anne repeated with massively widened eyes.

"It's the perfect place, especially for contacts located in the school, such as the children of Death Eaters who want to follow in Mummy and Daddy's footsteps," W.D. answered. He spoke about all of this with a familiarity that gave Anne the sense he had been hiding this, waiting to tell her for a long while. "I also do codebreaking of intercepted messages. A vast majority are in Runic languages as well as other magical lexicons, which the Death Eaters correctly assume very few can read. Makes me wonder what they would say if they knew that a Muggle-born was translating their communications."

W.D. tossed her a satisfied grin that allowed her to see the pride in his eyes. After a moment, Anne returned it. "You make me so proud, " she murmured as she squeezed his hands. "Are you safe.?"

"No one is, at times like these, but I'm careful," he answered in his deep, comforting baritone. "You would make a fantastic member, Anne... The fiight against corruption needs the bright, determined, and resilient, the people who can think on their feet."

"It's certainly something to think about," Anne admitted. She understood his passion now; even knowing about the Order had put a glowing ray of hope into her chest.

"Anne? W.D.?"

They glanced at one another, and then they were both off in their separate directions to continue the fight to stay on top of the pub's bustling chaos.

* * *

Ever since their conversation a few days ago, Anne had been doing her best to avoid Phillip Carlyle. She was currently rising dangerously late in the morning and skipping breakfast to avoid seeing him (and also to get more sleep, because, for someone leading a secret revolution, Professor Barnum assigns a lot of damn homework). It was not so difficult to avoid being near him in the day.

On the other hand, it was very difficult when she was rushing around the Common Room preparing for a date.

Awkward silence filled the room as Anne scrambled about, darting from the bathroom to her desk to her bedroom several times. Anne had donned an old but well-kept green blouse that exposed her shoulders and flowed like a tunic. She wore a pair of jeans and sandals, and her hair was loose and natural around her face. Anne had even attempted a bit of makeup, and with a pair of rhinestone earrings W.D. had given her, Anne did not think she looked half bad.

The Head Girl was in the bathroom when she heard the knock on the door. Carlyle looked up from his desk as she hurried to answer it, and she was immediately greeted with the sight of Swenson. He stood before her in khaki pants and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his short hair was neat as he gave her one of his perfect smiles.

"Wow," he said warmly as he looked at her. "You look amazing."

"You don't look too bad yourself," she teased back lightly.

He laughed, but then Carlyle was speaking and Anne stiffened. "Will you be back soon, or should I leave the lights on, Wheeler?"

"You can leave them on," Swenson replied firmly before she could say anything. "Good to see you, Carlyle."

"You, too." Neither was smiling.

Anne quickly tugged Swenson out of the Common Room, and then they were walking in an awkward silence. After a moment, he spoke up.

"What was that?"

She glanced over at the Keeper, whose brown eyes were locked on her own. "What was what?" she returned, hoping maybe he wouldn't push it.

"That tension," Swenson replied. He was trying to appear nonchalant, but she could tell that their exchange had bothered him.

"We had... An argument," Anne answered, glancing in his direction. "It isn't a big deal."

"Kind of seemed like it was," he said slowly, uncertainly.

"I promise, it isn't," Anne swore. "You wanted to tell me something at lunch today?"

Swenson perked up and reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it. "Right." He swallowed. "I was wondering if you might like to do this more often?" Her cheeks warmed, and before she could say anything, Anne had already started to nod. "How's next Friday for you?"

"Ugh, I can't. We have a planning meeting for the Seventh Year Dance."

"Sunday, then?"

"I've got to supervise detention."

"Tuesday?"

"Patrolling."

Swenson frowned and looked away. "I can't..." He stared and swallowed again, releasing her hand. HIs voice was gruff, but she could sense the hurt in it. "I can't help but think that this is about Carlyle."

Her gaze softened, and Anne stopped walking to take his hands. "Eli," she hummed softly as he looked down at her. "I swear, there isn't anything going on there. We're fine, I'm just busy." She paused. "How's Wednesday?"

He slowly allowed a grin to spread across his face. "Sounds perfect," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

They continued to walk, and Anne tried to shake the cobwebs of guilt from her shoulders as she laced her fingers with Swenson's.


	10. Chapter 10

It hurt much more than it should have to watch Wheeler leave with Swenson.

She had spent the hour before getting ready while Phillip tried and failed to be at all productive. It was impossible now to focus when Anne Wheeler was darting around with her soft curls completely free from their bun and her eyes excited. He had known they went out for a study date, but this was different. He had picked up on whispers from the members of the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team that said something about a dinner date, and that meant that it was serious- Wheeler was really interested in making things work with Swenson.

Why did it bother him so much? Phillip was not entirely sure, or more to the point he was not willing to think of the reason that this was. However, the suspicion was growing stronger, and every day spent without the tentative they had created before felt like the distance between them was growing even greater. Maybe that was the point, Phillip reminded himself. Her words replayed in his mind several times a day almost as a mantra to remind him why they were doing this. There wasn't room for the both of them to share any sort of bond, she had said. She did not want to be put at risk by him, and she did not want him to put her at risk in the war they were entering.

The idea of fighting on the opposite side of Wheeler made Phillip feel sick.

His inattention was grabbing the attention of his friends, as inconsistent and careless as they were. They noticed, it seemed, that an important member of their community was struggling to concentrate, and Phillip found himself blaming his behavior on his Head Boy duties several times. Phillip and Wheeler were indeed struggling to plan for the dance, a task that was daunting even without the added pressure of their strained relationship. Both were forced to stay up planning into the early hours of the morning, struggling to communicate ideas through stilted, uncomfortable conversation.

It was during one such conversation that Wheeler proposed the theme, an idea that he thought was quite brilliant. It was half past midnight, and the fire was burning low as they struggled to sort out the details of planning committees.

"-and finally, I will be supervising the Decorating Team after breakfast, the day of the event," Wheeler finished, glancing down at the scroll of planned events they had set up. She was dressed in the loose pair of pajama pants with a cardigan, and a few locks of curly hair fell into her tired eyes as she glanced up at him. "Does that sound alright?"

"It all sounds perfect," he answered with a quick nod. "So, now that we've done that, I think that it's best that we move on to the more creative aspects of the dance, like the theme and decorations. What do we want to do for it, maybe a Winter Wonderland?"

"No, they did that two years ago," Anne replied. "It was beautiful but too recent. Some of the students in our year attended it, so it won't be new enough."

Phillip frowned. "Point taken. Costume ball?"

"Three years ago, still a bit recent. And I do seem to recall there being a fiasco with a dragon group costume igniting."

He let out a soft sigh and leaned back against the base of his chair from where he was sitting on the floor. "I should be better at this, I have a bit of experience with parties," he muttered.

Wheeler looked down at the paper, and then she slowly said, "What about a masquerade?"

Phillip looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. "You mean, like the ones they used to have during the time of Marie Antoinette?"

"Sort of," she answered. Her eyes had a spark in them, and he could tell she was formulating a plan. "It would still be suit and tie, but everyone would wear masks to it. It would be mysterious, sort of glamorous, but everyone would have a very basic idea of who everyone else is."

Slowly, Phillip began to look up at her. He nodded, and a small, sad smile slid onto his lips. "That sounds amazing," he praised her softly, writing it down. "Sort of an emphasis on glamor, high-society. I can help there."

"Good, because past the masks, I wouldn't have the slightest idea where to begin," Wheeler answered. She was determinedly avoiding his gaze as she gathered her things, and Phillip found himself staring. Who could help it around her? He had not heard her laugh in such a long time, and the sound was one that he missed with an ache in his chest. He only saw her smiling now when she was with Swenson, and any other time she looked as exhausted and battered as he did. Phillip would have like to think that it had something to do with their Head duties, but he was fairly sure they both knew this was not so.

Wheeler glanced up, and then suddenly they were both frozen, drinking in the depths of one another's' eyes. His blue irises searched for the golden flecks in hers, and he drank in every detail of her face for a moment. The warm depths of her eyes, the curve of her slightly parted lips, the single curl of hair in her eyes- every single thing, he committed to memory. Her own eyes traveled Phillip, and he could tell that she was doing the same.

After a moment of this, Wheeler took in a sharp breath. "Goodnight, Carlyle," she whispered, which was the only sentence she had said to him outside of their Head duties for weeks. Wheeler clutched the papers to her chest, and then she was gone as if she had just been a long shadow cast by the firelight.

* * *

Their late night affected Phillip greatly the next day, to the point that he had completely slept through breakfast and was about to be late for a double Potions lesson. Phillip cursed to himself as he rushed about their dormitory, desperately summoning the things he needed to get to class. Phillip had no time to tend to his hair the way that he normally would have, so when Phillip left the dormitory to race down the halls, his short hair was an absolutely disheveled mess. For the first time in a long time, he actually missed the Slytherin dorms, simply because they were so close to the Potions dungeon.

It was just exactly as class began that Phillip managed to slide through the door to the dungeon, breathless and windswept as he glanced about like a madman. Almost every set of eyes in the classroom was on him, including the irises the color of cocoa that belonged to the girl sitting in the back right corner. Phillip noticed that today, Wheeler's nose was bright red, and she held a tissue in her hand by the pocket of her robes- she had a cold. There was a hint of what looked like amusement on her lips for an instant, but it vanished so quickly that he must have imagined it.

"Kind of you to join us, Mr. Carlyle," Professor Everidge drawled, glancing over at the Head Boy. "Please have a seat, and then we can begin."

The only open seat was in the back, besides Wheeler herself. She seemed to realize it before him, and her eyes widened a fraction of an inch before resuming their familiar tiredness. Carefully, Phillip moved to sit in the back at the open spot. "I'm sorry," he whispered in her direction. Wheeler did not look at him, only resolutely fixed her gaze on Everidge. Phillip waited for a moment, then turned to do the same.

"Alright, class," the professor announced, gesturing to instructions written out on the board. "Today, we will be examining the Amortentia that you have attempted. The potion is extremely difficult to make, but so long as you all came once a day to stir the potion as needed this week, you should be alright. You will be studying the end result today and taking notes on its properties, and if your mixture was a failure, I expect you to write me a foot-long essay on exactly where you went wrong, due tomorrow. However, this essay is not to be done in class. Rather, share some of the potion from a classmate who has succeeded in their potion to observe its properties. If all else fails, you all shall take a little bit of Miss Wheeler's, which I happen to know turned out perfectly."

Phillip felt a sinking feeling in his chest as he realized that he had not come the night before to stir his potion counterclockwise. In Advanced Potions, even the slightest error was enough to ruin a potion.

Wheeler stood to walk towards the closet where their Amortentia had been simmering. Even despite her tired eyes and the sniffles that Phillip had heard coming from her direction throughout the class, her countenance was glowing. Wheeler was an incredible Quidditch Player, but her skills in Potions went unrivaled in their class. She seemed to have an intuitive understanding of the nature of all of the ingredients and how they interacted, and he would often find her improvising to tamper with the balance of the potion to produce enhanced or altered results. This was always something that Everidge took the chance to comment upon, but Phillip knew that she did not do it for the praise.

She did it because it was fast and precise and intense, just like her.

Wheeler waited in front of him to fetch her potion, and sure enough, as she fetched her dented golden cauldron he could see the steam rising from it in spirals. Phillip reached for his cauldron as she passed and was greeted immediately with the potent smell of something that could only be described as scorched black licorice. He struggled to hold his breath as he carried the cauldron to the back, where there was a massive tub sink that was intended for ruined potions. There, Phillip turned his cauldron upside down only to be greeted with black sludge that was the consistency of grits. When he had emptied that, Phillip filled his cauldron with water and left it to sit, letting out a sigh as he returned to his seat.

As Phillip slowly seated himself, he hesitated. He fought with himself over how to approach the situation while Wheeler resolutely began to study the liquid that was the color of mother-of-pearl. Finally, Phillip hesitantly cleared his throat.

"Do you..." Her gaze did not flicker up to meet him, and Phillip winced. "Do you think that we could share?" he finally asked. "I'm really sorry, but mine is completely ruined." Phillip had been even more 'out of it' than usual yesterday, and he tried not to think about why.

Wheeler deemed him worthy of a reply this time before she glanced down at the mixture. "Sure," she answered as a few wisps of her hair fell into her eyes. Wheeler moved over so that the cauldron was between them, and she began to put a few drops into a bottle.

Phillip hesitated as he moved closer to the cauldron, and he peered inside Wheeler's rather dull golden cauldron. The potion gleamed as it simmered between them, and Phillip remembered what he had been told about the fumes that spiraled up in loose curls, just like the hair of the Ravenclaw next to him. They were rumored to smell like the things that were attractive to the individual, and Phillip could not help it; he was curious. Phillip took a deep breath of the mist and closed his eyes.

The first thing he smelled was warm apple cider, the kind that they served at the Three Broomsticks for a few weeks around Halloween. He could almost taste the cinnamon and cloves on his lips as he breathed it in, and Phillip knew that he would be craving it for weeks. Another scent that seemed to leap out at him took a bit more defining, but he figured it out after a moment. It was salt in the air, the taste of being near to the sea and on the coast. It reminded him of the beaches and coves that were located out beyond the walls of the manor, where he had snuck away from his father and his mother as a child. The third smell was so easy to identify that it might as well have been right in front of him.

Phillip smelled lilacs.

His eyes flew open, and Phillip dropped the glass flask he was holding. It landed with a thud, and before Phillip could catch it, the vial had rolled off the table to shatter on the ground. Beside him, Wheeler muttered an incantation under her breath, and the shards of glass began to repair themselves. The reassembled flask rose to rest on the table beside Phillip's hand, which was currently grasping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles were white.

"Are you alright?" Wheeler asked from beside him, but she still did not look up. Phillip was grateful for this for once.

"Yeah, I..." he stammered. "It only smells rather sharp, is all." Phillip ran a hand through his already-messy hair, grateful that he had the steamy dungeon to blame for the redness in his cheeks.

Wheeler raised an eyebrow. "I see," she said slowly. "I guess I wouldn't know."

Phillip's eyebrows shot up into her hair. How was she being so nonchalant with this potion? Even though she probably did not... Smell something about him, it was still a rather intimate aspect of the solution. "Why not?" he asked slowly.

Wheeler gestured noncommittally to her nose, muttering, "Can't smell a thing with this cold."

Phillip felt himself relax. Okay... So she would not know to connect the smell of the potion to his sudden movement, then. But she also would not smell the things that allured her, the same way that he had... Would she smell him, he couldn't help but wonder? There was a pang in his chest as he realized she would probably smell Swenson. Whatever, it was not worth speculating. He would never know what she could smell in it, and the likelihood was that she never would either. There was no reason to be feeling just slightly disappointed. He calmed down, relieved that Wheeler had not seen right through him.

As Phillip moved some of the potion into the vial, he felt panic fill him. This meant that he was attracted to her... To Wheeler. He had known deep down for a while that this was true, but he had hoped it was not anything deeper than some random, strange thought that popped into his head every once in a while. As Phillip began to apply the vial to the flame with tongs, he felt his stomach churn. He was attracted to her, and she was with Swenson.

More than that, he was attracted to her when he wasn't allowed to be, when she did not want him to be. Worse than that, Phillip knew it was more than an attraction or an infatuation. She had lingered in his head for months, and he wanted more... He wanted to know her and to spend time with her in ways that they never had before. Phillip knew that she was better, so much better than any of the people who claimed to be his friends. When their minds brushed together, the way they had all of those weeks ago with the Patronuses... It had been something beautiful.

For the rest of the double Potions lesson, Phillip was perhaps the most inattentive he had ever been in class before. He nearly broke the flask again, accidentally started a small fire with his scroll of observations (meaning that he had to begin again), and nearly bumped into Wheeler at least six times. Luckily, the Head Girl was able to quickly dart out of the way each time, closely avoiding the collisions until the bell rang to signify the end of the class. Phillip was like this for the rest of the day, and the mountain of homework only grew thanks to his inability to even so much as put a dent in it during class. But Phillip did not know what to do, and his mind was racing.

She deserved so much better than someone who stood idly by while his friends tormented Muggle-borns. She deserved more than a scared boy who had spent his whole life being told that he was better than her when really he knew that he did not deserve anyone like her. She deserved someone who could walk with her in the hallways and sit by her in the Great Hall, who could promise her that they would never let harm come to her.

Anne Wheeler deserved someone who could love her without hurting her at the same time, and Phillip knew that he could never be safe for her.

The rest of the day seemed to fly by, mostly because Phillip was dreading the return to the Common Room. He knew it was hardly her fault that he was in love with her, but he did not know how he could look at her without having it written on his forehead. And he did not want to do that to her, to shove any of the weight that he was now carrying on his shoulders onto hers. No, he decided. Better to starve it off in secret than to force her to think about feelings that she did not requite. That would be cruel, and that would be selfish- it would hurt the both of them, and Phillip was not willing to do that to her. Besides, he reasoned as he walked into the Common Room. Maybe... Maybe he had it wrong, and it just was some stupid crush. Maybe he was exaggerating something that wasn't even that big of a deal.

Those thoughts were thrown out the window when Phillip entered the room to find Anne Wheeler standing in the center of it with the expression of someone who had seen a ghost.

The girl seemed to be held up through sheer force of will alone, and Phillip thought a gust of wind might knock her over. Anne's face was ashen and her eyes were glassy and hollow, and there was a letter clenched in her fist with so much force that the paper was tearing. As Phillip entered the room, she looked up at him, but she did not see him really. It was the most horrible thing that Phillip had ever seen, because, for one terrible moment, Anne Wheeler's beautiful mind was not moving at all.

"Anne," he exclaimed, rushing to her side. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and where Anne would have normally protested she instead shrank into him. She was shaking, he realized as he quickly moved her to a chair. Her legs seemed to collapse under her as she fell into it, and Phillip knelt before her to look into her eyes. "What happened?"

Anne opened her mouth, but for a moment she did not seem to be capable of saying anything at all. Then, the words fell from her lips like the first few drops of rain, slowly and then all at once.

"It... It's my brother. He-"

Her voice broke, and Phillip's heart did with it.

"He's gone."


	11. Chapter 11

Shattered glass scraped underneath their feet as Anne and Carlyle approached the Three Broomsticks in the dark of the night. There was a crowd of people gathered around the establishment, talking and speculating about what had happened. Anne struggled to listen, but Carlyle looked down at her with those beautiful eyes.

"Don't," he murmured, gently resting a hand on her shoulder in a manner that was far more comforting than it should have been. "It will only make it worse."

Anne nodded slowly, hollowly. Normally, she would have jerked forward and knocked his hand from her shoulders, probably coupled with a warning remark. But right now, Anne was barely able to stand, and the warmth of his hand was giving her strength.

Anne and Phillip finally came to a stop before the Broomsticks, and her eyes slowly traveled the scene that was spread out before them. It was not, she realized, the Broomsticks that had been damaged. It was the apartment upstairs, the one which she shared with W.D.

The curtains were torn as they drifted through the panes of broken glass, and they appeared to Anne like fingers grasping for her, attempting to lure her in. Anne could not see a single window that remained unbroken. Glass littered the ground around them, as well as many of their things: there was a pile of splintered wood where the chest that had belonged to Anne's mother had been thrown out the window, and several piles of W.D.'s mutilated translating books were scattered on the path with pages drifting away like tumbleweeds, clearly ripped from the books in chunks.

Above it all, the Dark Mark writhed in the sky, with the skeleton's empty gaze leaving Anne to wonder if her brother was as hollow and lifeless as it was.

Anne had not realized that there were tears in her eyes until the cold wind forced them free. Warm liquid poured down her cheeks, and Anne took in a sharp breath. Carlyle looked down at her, and his eyes were melted pools of horror and concern.

Slowly, he pulled her into an embrace, and Anne stiffened against his chest. "I... Th-this isn't... Isn't safe for... you," Anne gasped, but he only wrapped his arms around her frame.

"Do you honestly think I give a damn about my safety right now, Wheeler?" he asked quietly, and Anne melted against him.

Sobs shook her whole body as Carlyle carefully rocked her in his arms, and Anne rested her head against his firm chest. She could feel her tears soaking into his robes, but he did not make any move to pull away. Instead, he rubbed her back in comforting circles, whispering, "Shh... It's alright. It's going to be okay." Anne did not know why, but part of her believed him.

Anne did not know how long they sat there, locked in an embrace. However, after a while of it, Anne could feel herself calming down. The warmth of his arms made her feel safe, secure, just for a moment. The sobs stopped, and after a while, she slowly managed to compose herself.

"I... I think I'm alright," she murmured, and Carlyle obediently took a step back. HIs robes had a large stain on them from her tears, but he did not even look down. HIs eyes were locked on her.

"Ms. Wheeler," came a voice from beside them, and Anne turned to find herself face-to-face with Charity Barnum. The woman had a grim look on her face as her eyes met Anne's. "We have much to discuss... Will you come with me, please?" Her voice was not unkind, but it was serious. Something about it calmed Anne.

"Yes," she murmured, moving to follow Professor Barnum. Carlyle glanced between them, concerned, but Anne shook her head at him. She attempted a sort of strained smile his way, which he nodded and returned. Anne turned back to Barnum, and then they were walking away from the Broomsticks and along the path that led towards the place where they could view the Shrieking Shack.

"Are you aware," Barnum quietly asked, her voice gentle and firm, "of the activities your brother was engaged in regarding-"

"-The Order of the Phoenix?" Anne finished. "Yes, I know of them. That's what this is, isn't it? The Death Eaters found him."

"That they did," the woman continued, resting a comforting hand on Anne's shoulder. Anne was reminded of the gesture that Phillip had repeated as they approached. "But he did not go down without a fight- in fact, he did not even go down."

Anne's gaze snapped up to Professor Barnum, and her eyes were filled with hope. The woman gave her a gentle, careful smile. "When your brother first joined us," Charity began, "we gave him a Portkey, in the form of an old pocket watch that he could have in his pocket at all times. Upon use, it transported him to the caves in the mountains outside of Hogsmeade."

Anne pressed her hands to her lips, and warmth filled her chest as she ran the words through her mind. W.D. was alive, that was what she was being told. Her brother was okay.

"W.D. is one of the boldest spellcasters I know," Professor Barnum said firmly. "He managed not only to stave them off but also to rescue a large number of translations from them so he could continue his work. Undoubtedly, the Death Eaters will now begin new codes. But your brother is a clever man, and he will be able to keep up with them."

Anne felt the joy of the realization fill her. "Can I see him?" she asked softly.

Professor Barnum's smile changed to one of sympathy. "No, my love," she murmured. "You may correspond with him, if you wish, but only through the Floo Network and only using the fireplace in my office or Phineas's. These are the only two that we know are enchanted to the point that the Death Eaters may not monitor them. If you go to see him, you could be followed. Surely now, more than ever before, you will be under observation... They all want your brother captured and punished."

Anne drew in a sharp breath. "What is the official story," she asked quietly, "of what happened?"

Charity winced, and Anne felt her muscles tense. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Barnum answered." has many followers in high places, both in the Ministry-"

"-and The Daily Prophet," she finished. "So..."

"They will most likely name him a traitor," Charity finished, and Anne could feel her hands balling into fists.

"That is absolutely ridiculous," she spat. "What could they possibly say about him? That... That..."

"That he was living in Hogsmeade monitoring the students of Hogwarts and their movements," Charity said quietly, "most likely planning an attack."

Anne felt her heart sink. "But he would never."

"And you know that, and that is all that matters," Charity said firmly. Her eyes shone as she spoke. "Keep your chin high, Anne Wheeler. People will gossip because that is what they do. But the truth will come out in the end, it always does."

Anne nodded, and she glanced down at her feet. "And what about school?" she asked quietly. "I know that a large portion is paid for by scholarship, but..." Without W.D., Anne was not sure how she would continue to afford attendance. And with nowhere to return to, she would be alone completely.

"The members of the Order take care of one another," Charity said firmly, and she gave Anne's shoulders a light squeeze. "You were the first thing W.D. wanted to talk about upon joining. Phineas and I have a house, under the Fidelius Charm, from which the order is operating. It was owned by my parents before their passing, so the place is rather ghastly in its furnishings, but it is large. Many Order members already stay there, and there is a place for you there, if you would like it."

Anne nodded slowly, and she offered Charity a tight smile. "Thank you for your generosity," she said quietly.

Charity nodded, looking down at the girl who stood before her. "You are a brave girl, Anne, and he is proud of you. He hoped to fight by your side one day, and when that day comes, I would not want to be one of those who stands in your way."

Anne offered Charity a little smile. "I fear for them, too," she murmured. "W.D. and I.. We've fought together our whole lives, in a way. After all that, I like to think that the battlefield would be as familiar as coming home."

"And then," Charity murmured, her own smile growing, "there will be no need to live in the shadows of a fight anymore... Only room to grow."

* * *

The next few days were quite possibly the most difficult that Anne had ever faced in her time at Hogwarts. No one at the school had the slightest idea what 'discreet' meant, so of course, any time that anyone had a secret, the whole school could be heard bandying it about further. Normally, this would not have been any great bother to Anne, but now that the dark influence of You-Know-Who was spreading, the same treatment that had once been given to idle gossip was now also assigned to the dark, macabre retellings of the activities of the Death Eaters.

Everyone knew of the attack at the Broomsticks, but the retelling had been twisted so many times that Anne was sure there were probably at least thirty different reports of what had gone on. The first day following the incident, The Prophet had released an article about W.D. Wheeler, the dangerous pedophile who had been stalking and tracking the movements of the students in Hogwarts for his own exploitation. The Dark Mark's presence had been mysteriously written out of the article, as had the presence of any Death Eaters.

That first day, the whispers had followed Anne anywhere and everywhere she went. When she and Swenson sat at the Ravenclaw Table, any requests to pass food were ignored, and no one sat within three feet of them. Anne could hear the jeering and mockery that came from the Slytherin table, and once or twice when she looked over she was met with laughter and spitting. Phillip Carlyle was nowhere to be seen, a fact which irked Anne more than she cared to admit, even when he informed her later that he had been doing his Transfiguration homework. Swenson walked Anne to all of her classes, and though he tried to keep up a conversation, Anne was unable to engage him in it.

When the weekend arrived, Anne was more relieved than anything. It was time alone, time to work at the Broomsticks and on homework while everyone had their own business to occupy themselves with, not hers.

At first, the shift went perfectly. Anne relished the work, running orders back and forth and working as a waitress. The money she made, as Charity had informed her, would be put towards her schooling, but whatever Anne did not make would be made up by the Barnums. She did not want to put that kind of strain on anyone, even though she had been told numerous times that they could afford it. She liked the work, and it was good for her- there was a rhythm to it, and it kept her from thinking about W.D. She had written her brother with Charity's owl that could not be tracked, but he had not been able to reply thanks to the amount of surveillance the school was enforcing.

The work wasn't easy today. People knew who she was, and many said as little as possible to her. Tables fell silent when she approached, and people seemed relieved when she left. However, after a while, the customers would warm up to her presence, and she was able to get in a joke or something that would produce smiles. By noon, most of the people at the bar had relaxed to her presence, and Anne felt real hope.

The bell jingled to signal the arrival of a new group, and Anne looked up. Her heart sank to her chest as her eyes found the group: Avery, Cassia, Darya, Rosier, Rowle, and Carlyle. They were laughing and talking about something, and Anne could hear Cassia's laugh ring out over everything like a bell.

She could hear Phillip's laughter, too, a sound which made her homesick for someplace she could not go.

He looked up at that instant, and their eyes met. Anne's hands had frozen on the glass mug she was wiping down, and the laughter immediately died in the blue irises that met her own.

Cassia looked up, too, and a smirk began to play on the girl's lips. She muttered something to the rest of the group as they moved to sit down in a corner booth, and the malicious leering spread like an infection among them. Anne turned and breathed in, setting down the mug in favor of taking the pen and pad she used for orders. Slowly, with the dread growing in every step she took, Anne approached the table where the group of Slytherins sat.

"How can I help you today?" Anne asked quietly, looking anywhere and everywhere but in the direction of the Head Boy.

"Oh, look, she's wearing a uniform," Darya commented with a little, amused laugh. She spoke as if Anne had said nothing at all and she was commenting on the antics of a particularly foolish child. "How... Quaint."

Anne heard the laughter of the group, and she could feel eyes travel down to the yellow dress and white apron that she wore. It took all of her self-control not to cross her arms over her chest... And Anne could do nothing. She had been lucky not to be dismissed from the pub in the first place, seeing as there was the potential that she could be even worse for business than the report in the Prophet had been.

"Fits just right, though," Avery purred, reaching out to touch Anne's side. She took a sharp step backward, and the laughter began again.

"Avery," Carlyle's voice came, clearly in warning.

"Relax, Carlyle," Avery hummed as he looked up. "I won't do anything that gets us in trouble."

Anne's heart was pounding and her blood ran cold as she looked at Carlyle. For a moment, there was anger in her eyes and despair in his. She did not need him to defend her, she would do her job and do it well despite their antics. She needed it, now more than ever.

"What can I get you-"

"Well, since you asked," Rowle chortled, causing more raucous laughter.

"-to drink?" Anne finished coolly, turning the page in her notepad.

For a minute, Anne thought the worst was over because they actually listened. She wrote down the orders for butterbeers, pumpkin juice, and a cup of warm cider for Carlyle which she only asked as a formality. She had seen him arrive back from Hogsmeade with it enough to know it was his favorite. However, when she turned to go, Cassia grabbed her wrist and Anne stiffened. "Be quick, would you," she said serenely, pretending as though she did not have Anne in an iron grip. "And you'll be delivering them by hand."

Anne let out a breath as Cassia released her and returned to their conversation as though nothing had happened. She fled the table with a racing heart, and when Anne had reached the safety of the bar, she leaned against it for a moment and rested her head in her hands.

After taking a moment to breathe, she rose up and began to make the drinks. Anne could feel eyes on her, and every time she glanced up, her eyes met the deep blues of Carlyle's which were currently seas of conflict. She stared into them, for a moment, then slowly shook her head before she approached with the newly made drinks.

"Ah, she's back," Darya crooned. "I always prefer my dogs come when called." There was more laughter as Anne forced herself to keep a straight face.

"You know, this is the way that things should be," Cassia hummed. "She's in her place, and it suits her. Mudbloods aren't meant to be practicing magic, and they sure as hell aren't meant to be lording around over everyone as Head Girl."

Before, the teasing had been cruel, but now it was coming with an icy edge that caused goosebumps to rise on her skin. As Anne moved to give Avery his drink, she felt his eyes climb up her body, and her heart dropped into her stomach. Across the table, there was a crash as Carlyle dropped the empty steels cups that always sat on the table in case of coffee, and Avery looked away long enough for Anne to move past.

When she set Cassia's pumpkin juice down, the girl seemed to be thinking as she looked Anne up and down. The blonde Sixth Year had a gleam in her eyes that sent a thrill of desperation through Anne. She needed to get away, this was the last cup and then she could go.

Anne set down the cup, but before she could turn, Cassia had said, "In fact, the place for creatures such as you is kneeling at our feet."

Before Anne could say or do anything at all, Cassia had reached out and shoved Carlyle's glass of cider off of the table. There was a commotion of shattering glass that caused all to look over at them, and Cassia's eyes were locked on Anne's.

"Clean it up."

Anne took in a slow, sharp breath, and then she slowly said, "I do not have to-"

In an instant, Cassia had Anne's wrist in a grip that allowed her nails to dig into the skin. The rest of the table watched with greedy eyes, hungrily watching the scene before them. Anne did not look at Carlyle as she cried out in pain, all too aware of the fact that she had left her wand back behind the bar.

"Kneel, you little whore," Cassia repeated, twisting Anne's arm so that she had little choice but to. A gasp of hurt escaped her lips as she knelt on the floor in the puddle of cider. Cassia let go, and her arm throbbed. Several sharp nails had punctured Anne's skin, and little drops of blood were welling up there. "There we go," she purred. "Now... Don't make me say it again. Clean it up."

Anne did not know what else she could do. The girl's eyes told Anne that if she did not, she would be cursed... And there was no possible way that she could hope to defend herself without a wand against a whole able of future Death Eaters.

Anne tugged a rag from the waist of her apron. Humiliation welled up in her throat as she averted her gaze and began to mop up the spill, delicately plucking away pieces of broken glass with her fingers. The members of the table began to laugh, but then Anne heard a voice.

"Stop it."

Anne looked up to find Phillip Carlyle looking at her with fire in his blue eyes, and her own eyes widened. "Stop it, now."

Anne was frozen in place as the rest of the table turned to look his way. "Carlyle," Avery said in a warning voice. His eyes were beginning to narrow. "What are you-"

"I'm telling you to stop this, now," Carlyle interrupted, turning his gaze on Avery. The boy flinched at the intensity that he was receiving from those eyes, the eyes that held Anne captive whenever they met hers.

"You're out of line," Darya spoke up slowly, turning a gaze of blistering cold onto Carlyle.

"If you don't have the stomach for this, then-" Avery began, but Carlyle clearly would not hear any of it.

"It's not about stomach, Avery, it's about the fact that I'm not a goddamn sadist." Carlye stood, and he approached Anne. For a moment, as he towered over her with those eyes, Anne was actually afraid.

And then, he was offering her his hand. "Get up," he murmured softly, his voice quiet and gentle in a way that she had only ever heard it with her.

Anne looked to him, and her brow furrowed slightly. Slowly, Anne rose, but she did not take his hand. She stood by herself, and then before she knew it Anne was turning on her heel to leave.

Anne strode behind the bar, the front of her skirt dripping wet, and then she turned and shoved open the door to the back room, where they kept all of the barrels of drink. The door swung shut behind her, and Anne let out a breath as she yanked off her soaked apron with one hand and used the other to pull her hair free of its bun. The curls fell loose in a tangle down her back as Anne struggled to breathe, to calm her racing heart.

The door swung open again, and then shut, and Anne whirled about to find herself much too close to Phillip Carlyle in the crowded back room.

Now that the door was shut, The crowded room was only lit by the late afternoon light from a single, frosted window. The barrels took up most of the space and left only a tiny aisle between the shelves and the window, with barely enough room for two people to stand side-by-side. Anne's eyes met those of Phillip Carlyle, and she refused to let herself drown in them.

"How dare you," she whispered, and then slightly louder. "How dare you."

"You couldn't do anything without losing your job," he answered coolly, and now there was a confidence in his gaze that gave her goosebumps again.

"Maybe not, but I was riding it out, I was fine," Anne retorted. They both knew that was a lie, but her pride was seriously injured.

"Oh, were you?" Phillip countered, taking a step towards her. "Forgive me, because from where I am standing it didn't bloody look like it."

"I'm not some damsel in need of saving!" Anne burst, backing away from him as her eyes flashed. "I don't want to be used as a tool to inflate your ego, I don't want you to treat me like I'm weak since my brother-"

"I didn't do it because you're weak!" he burst, closing their distance again. Anne could smell apple cider spices and pine soap as she glared up at him. "I did it because you're so bloody strong, you'd let them use the Cruciatus Curse on you before you'd accept help from me!"

"Oh, so you knew I didn't want your help and you did it anyway!"

"Yeah, I did, because no matter how hard you insist on punishing yourself for no reason, I know that you don't bloody deserve it!"

Their voices grew in volume, overlapping in shouts, and Anne continued to move back as Phillip moved forward. Suddenly, her foot rammed into the bottom corner of one of the shelves, and Anne was falling backward.

His arms shot around her waist to catch her, but her momentum dragged her forward and him stumbling along. Her arms shot around his neck to hold herself up, which only tugged him closer to her as they both crashed into the back wall. Anne was pressed against it, and she could feel the cold glass of the window through the thin yellow dress as she looked up at him.

They were close, so close. From this distance, Anne could count the shades of blue she saw in his eyes... Cerulean, azure, periwinkle, indigo. The light that came through the frosted window cast sharp shadows along his jawline and one of her hands had slipped up to his hair as they fell, ruffling it to so it was windswept. For a moment, she could not breathe... Even if she did, she knew that she would smell balsam fir needles and cinnamon.

One of the warm arms around her waist rose to her face, gently stroking her messy curls. Neither moved, neither breathed as he tangled his fingers in her hair, cupping her cheek carefully. It was as though they were both made of glass, and each was terrified of breaking the other. Anne had never known her heart to beat so fast... She was certain he could hear it.

Carlyle swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Merlin, Wheeler," he breathed in such a soft, awed voice that Anne almost forgot how to take in air altogether. Her eyes flickered to his lips, and suddenly he was gently moving to rest his forehead against hers. For a moment, they stood there, forehead to forehead. His other hand moved to gently brush her cheekbone with his thumb, and for a moment Anne was certain that he was going to lean in. Everything in her wanted, needed him to lean in.

And then he let out a sharp breath, taking a step back. "No."

Anne's heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, and she gasped as soon as they were parted. He had yanked the pine and cinnamon from her lungs, and now she could breathe again... Anne tried not to think about how much of her longed to be dizzy from lack of air again.

His face was bright red as Anne quickly brushed past him. "Wheeler, I-"

"No, you're right," she mumbled as she grabbed the soaked apron from where it had fallen on the floor of the room. "I'm with Swenson and we were arguing, and this is just... Just carried over tension. You and I aren't meant to be in any sort of relationship, especially not-" Her voice broke, and Anne blinked several times, taking a deep breath. Carlyle was watching her with wide eyes full of hurt, but before he could say anything she quickly turned to leave the room.

Anne did not go back behind the bar or back to wait on tables. She turned and walked to the front of the pub, fleeing into the freezing night air beyond.


End file.
